Father
by H.J. Bender
Summary: Dracula visits the Valerious family the night their son Velkan is born, & claims him as his own. Throughout the years the vampire manipulates & torments the gypsy prince, destroying the Valerious family... DISCONTINUED
1. The Unholy Consecration

**Father  
****Author:** H.J. Bender  
**Pairing:** --  
**Rating:** T  
**Summary:** Dracula investigates the newest member of the Valerious family, and is faced with a dilemma...  
**Disclaimer:** Main characters, events, original storyline, etc belong to Universal Studios 2004.  
**A/N:** I have taken a few liberties with ages and dates, though minimally. Enjoy.

_I am the corner of all rooms  
__I am the shadows of all trees…  
__I am the nightmare of all fathers.  
__-_Rammstein, _Mann gegen Mann_

**I. The Unholy Consecration**

In the year 1864, there was a great stir in the small Romanian town of Vaseria one blustery morning in late March; Boris Valerious, king of the gypsies, and his wife Isabel of Moldavia, had become the proud sires of their first child, Prince Velkan Alexandru. It was an especially joyous occasion, for the king and queen had been trying for a baby several years now, only to be met with disappointment and, on one unfortunate circumstance, a miscarriage. King Boris had begun to doubt his ability to provide an heir to the Valerious throne, and the demand of a son was great—the child was not only to carry the bloodline of his ancestors, but also the hope of salvation for his entire family.

Since nearly four centuries past, his progenitors had sworn an oath to God not to rest in Heaven's eternal peace until the evil engendered by Valerious the Elder had been destroyed. That evil, known to all Romanians as Vladislaus Dragulia, had been as feared in death as he had been in life, for the former monarch of the Wallachian kingdom had been a sadistic madman—bloodthirsty, merciless and cruel. He inspired a reign of violence and terror across eastern Europe, and it wasn't until his murder in 1462 that the terror-stricken people of Romania could at last breathe their first sighs of freedom in almost twenty years. But their relief would be short-lived, for Vladislaus returned to life, undead, with the promise of destroying every soul upon the Earth in the name of vengeance and his Infernal Master.

Even though his son was the epitome of wickedness, Valerious the Elder could not bear to kill him, even for the sake of the world. Instead, he had Vladislaus exiled to a cold and icy realm where he would remain a prisoner for the rest of his immortal life. But upon the death of the Elder, the Devil gave to Vladislaus flight, and means of escaping from his frozen place of banishment, leaving the world at the mercy of Count Dracula, Emissary of Evil.

The Valerious family had grown smaller over the years, killed by Dracula and his spreading legion of followers, until only King Boris remained. If he failed to provide an heir who could take up the sword before he passed into death, then the hundreds of souls who had fought and given their lives so valiantly would never know the realm of God's everlasting Kingdom.

But surely now this lamentable fate would not be so, for at last a child had been blessed to the king and queen, a beautiful baby boy who held the hope of generations in his crystal blue eyes.

† † †

The gypsy king had announced the birth of his son to the residents of Vaseria from the balcony of Valerious Manor. A great cheer had gone up and the people began rejoicing, grateful that their lord's protective lineage would continue to serve them as it had in the past. Boris arranged for a grand ball to take place that night in honour of the newborn prince, and everyone in town was invited to attend.

Such revelry had not been seen in Transylvania for centuries; spirits were merry, wine flowed like water, and the festivities carried on for three whole days, during which Isabel and the infant Velkan made brief appearances. Each time they did, cups and goblets were raised in toast, and songs of freedom and God's victory over evil were sung with rapturous abandon, carrying loudly through the halls and corridors of the Valerious estate.

The gaiety and liveliness emanating from Vaseria was so great that its music travelled through ice and snow and reached the ears of Count Vladislaus Dracula, rousing him from his slumber in his arctic coffin.

"What noise is this?" he muttered, striding across the room to gaze out the narrow window. Through the falling snow and across the jagged horizon of mountains, Dracula stood poised, listening intently to the distant sounds of laughter and singing coming from a realm that was closer than one might believe.

"What reason do they have to be joyous?" the dark-haired man said to himself. "Have my brides not been driving fear enough into their frail mortal hearts? Have they lost their minds and are offering themselves to my mercy?"

The Count pondered in silence, listening to the mirth carried on the bitter wind and growing ever more curious. "Perhaps I shall pay the good citizens a visit," he murmured, "and see for myself the cause for this revolting cacophony."

Bothering not to wake his sleeping brides, Dracula grew his wings and flew into the frosty night.

† † †

Cloaked in an inconspicuous guise befitting the typical Vaserian townsman, Vladislaus Dracula wound his way through the dancing, carousing throng of people gathered in the great hall of Valerious Manor. He saw that fool of a king standing at the head of the room, laughing and singing in a rich voice with a choir of his fellow huntsmen. The Count was confused, for it seemed that Boris were acting as if he had vanquished his foe once and for all—it made no sense.

Dracula resisted the urge to reveal himself in all his vampiric, unholy wrath and throw horror into the jubilant gathering, scattering them like frightened mice. While it would be an infinite source of satisfaction, he would eventually be forced to retreat without ever having the mystery of this celebration solved, and he had not come here to start a riot. It was his own curiosity that helped him control his demonic whims.

The Count's attention was diverted from an appetising morsel of a maiden to Boris, who was proclaiming in a proud, regal voice, "Hail! For here comes my beloved queen!"

A hearty chorus of 'hail the queen' was raised as the lovely, dark-haired wife of the gypsy king stepped onto the dais and stood beside her husband.

Smiling broadly, Boris put his arm about her and raised his goblet aloft, declaring, "To Isabel! My beautiful wife and an amazing woman! And to Velkan, my son! Our hope for the future!"

When the queen lifted the infant for all to see, Dracula stood riveted in shock while the people around him exploded into wild cheers. Valerious –the blundering, incompetent human– had created a child, a son, a warrior to fight against the Count. An instant enemy, simply by birth. Dracula's rage would have been unparalleled if the pale blue of the prince's eyes had not set themselves directly upon him, as if the child had been born with the instinct to see through whatever mask that evil wore.

Vladislaus was so perturbed by these sudden events that he immediately turned on his heel and left the ball, his mind consumed in a maelstrom of burning questions.

† † †

That night, when the party had quieted itself in the wee hours due to exhaustion and overindulgence in wine, a shadow crept soundlessly past the sleeping sentries and across the hall like water, flowing up the winding staircase, down the broad corridor, and into the king's bedchamber. Boris lay with his wife against his breast; both were sound asleep. The shadow snaked across the floor like a serpent and to the bassinet not far from the royal bed. The darkness lifted itself from the floor and slowly took shape, and soon Count Dracula was standing above the infant prince.

With his eyes on the parents, watching for any signs of wakefulness, Dracula reached into the cradle and took baby Velkan from its safety, holding him gently so as not to make him cry. And then, with the helpless prince in his arms, the Count slipped out of the window and began to walk down the sheer stone wall as easily as if it were level ground.

"You would have been safe had you been the son of any other man," he murmured dispassionately, stepping down from the wall and striding into the small, overgrown courtyard. "But you were born the son of my enemy, and so you are my enemy as well."

He gazed down at the bundle in his arms, and the infant's sleepy eyes fluttered open; he made small gurgles and mumbles, but did not cry. Dracula could not help but to admire his perfection: rosy cheeks, bright blue eyes, the thin veil of soft, dark hair upon his small head.

"One day, little prince," said Vladislaus, "you will grow to become the man who might find the way to finish me once and for all. I am afraid I must kill you now while I have the chance, for I have children of my own who are depending on me…"

The Count's sentence trailed as his thoughts wandered and something like sadness took hold of him. His own children were lifeless, dead at birth, hanging in their putrid cocoons like foul meat in a butcher's shop, lining the dungeons and halls of his castle prison and waiting for life to be given to them. The part of Dracula that had once been human knew that his offspring were ugly, gross abominations of nature itself. They would never be as beautiful as this newborn prince which he now held, nor as intelligent—they were mere beasts in comparison, driven only by the urge to feed like savages and breed like wild animals.

Dracula had wanted children, not mindless pets. However, this did not alter his value for them, for if his brood were brought to life, their greatest strength would lie in their sheer numbers. They would help him to conquer this wretched world and every soul that dwelt in it… but still he desired to father children as only humans can.

Dracula was capable of doing everything a mortal man could do –and even more– with ten times the strength; but for all his powers, he fell short when called to create life anew. His very seed had been cursed so that no living mother should bear his iniquitous young, and yet the three undead women whom he had taken to be his brides bore to him nothing but abhorrent corpses. But in his arms he held a miracle, _the_ miracle, and God's most powerful gift to mankind: the human form of immortality.

"How I despise you," Dracula uttered, staring down at the infant but not addressing him. "You who condemned me and abandoned me, you who smote me and ripped my heart from my breast, and stole from me no strength save the one that matters most."

Cradling baby Velkan in one arm, Vladislaus held his hand before the infant's face and allowed him to grasp a pale, cold finger in his warm and tiny hand. The Count smiled at such receptiveness, and then his brow furrowed when he detected that the child lacked the Mark of God upon his soul.

"You are yet to be christened, aren't you, little one?" he said softly. "You have yet to be branded like the rest of the cattle, to become the property of a lord through no consent of your own… I wonder, if you were offered the choice, would you not accept me as your father? O, what glorious vengeance that would make!"

Vladislaus lifted his dark eyes to the cloudy, starless sky. "Such as you have stolen from me, so shall I steal from you, God of Worthlessness—this child will not be yours!"

With sudden violence, Dracula brought his wrist to his mouth and laid open his veins with a single sharp bite. Then, holding his wound above Velkan's head, he allowed his blood to drip onto the infant's fair crown in a hellish baptism.

"The king may have given you life," said the Count through clenched teeth as he endured the pain, "but I can make it eternal. By the powers of His Infernal Malevolence, henceforth until death, its severance, I bind your soul in service to me… Velkan Dragulia."

† † †

With the sacrilegious task completed, Dracula crept back into the royal bedchamber and returned the baby Velkan to his bassinet, taking care to make certain that the blood on the child's forehead was concealed and that he was properly wrapped; human beings were so frail that even a little thing like coldness could kill them.

_But not you, Velkan, my beautiful boy,_ thought the Count as he stroked the prince's pudgy cheek and smiled. _Very soon you will rule at my side, and help me bring life to my children. Your mothers shall love you as they love me, and your brothers and sisters shall adore and obey you. Your kingdom awaits you… soon. Very soon._

Sinking once more into the shadows, Dracula silently flowed out the window and melted into the darkness of the night.

† † †

A few days later at the prince's christening, while Velkan wailed continuously and writhed in his swaddling, the crucifix hanging about the priest's neck abruptly fell to the floor and shattered like a stained glass window.

_To Be Continued..._


	2. Provider & Protector

**Father  
****Author:** H.J. Bender  
**Pairing:** --  
**Rating:** T  
**Summary:** Dracula watches over the young Prince Velkan, but can he protect him from sickness?  
**Disclaimer:** Main characters, events, original storyline, etc belong to Universal Studios 2004.  
**A/N:** I have taken a few liberties with ages and dates, though minimally. Enjoy.

_I am the corner of all rooms  
__I am the shadows of all trees…  
__I am the nightmare of all fathers.  
__-_Rammstein, _Mann gegen Mann_

**II. Provider & Protector**

The Count kept a watchful eye on the Valerious family from the frozen domain of his castle fortress, many times visiting the village for no other reason than to observe the happenings at his enemy's estate. Often he would take the form of a shadow or a creature of the night, as vampires were wont, listening with his keen, immortal ears to the goings on inside the manor. No sinister preoccupation marked his nightly vigils, neither did a desire to harm—Dracula was a silent, undetected audience who wished only to watch, and never did the focus of his interest defect from his ultimate prize: Prince Velkan Alexandru.

It had not been Dracula's intent to inform his brides of his plans so early on, but women were nothing if clever and observant –even in death– and they were quick to take notice of his frequent absences.

"Leaving us again, my lord?" Verona, the eldest of his wives, inquired in her deep, mournful murmur as she discovered her husband in the midst of one of his nightly departures.

"Has Vaseria become so interesting that it takes precedence over us?" Marishka added, lingering in the shadows with her eyes aglow.

"We have woken alone for the past month," said Aleera, walking along one of the great stone buttresses of the castle ceiling. "Do we no longer please our master?"

Dracula smiled with shallow charm. "My loves," he said, "forgive me. I have been a poor husband to you."

"Never, my lord," Verona insisted.

"We but worry for you," purred Marishka.

At this, Dracula laughed. "Your worry is for nought, my dearest ones, for I am well and you please me well enough."

"Then what has so caught the attention of our master?" Aleera asked excitedly, sailing down from the ceiling and landing lightly on her feet.

"Valerious," said Dracula with a darkening tone as he strode down the main corridor with his brides following in his wake. "He has brought forth a son. An heir."

"Another enemy," Verona muttered with disdain, glancing at Marishka who mirrored her contempt. "How the humans breed so profusely is revolting."

"Would you like us to take care of the little maggot for you?" Aleera offered, then sprang back in surprise as the Count spun on his heel, his face twisted monstrously with rage.

"_No!_" he roared, and his brides scattered into the shadows where they cowered with fear. "You are not to touch him, nor any of the Valeriouses. That 'little maggot' is going to find life for the thousands of dead, useless children you have borne for me, and for that you must honour him. He is to be our saviour and our son, heralding in the reign of Dragulia upon this earth! Already have I put the blood-mark upon his soul; when the time comes he will be ours, and you will love and obey him as if he were your own flesh and blood!"

"O master," his brides wept, clinging to each other piteously, "does your own flesh and blood mean so little to you now? Are your own children so despised that you would seek a child from the womb of your enemy? Have we failed you as wives?"

Dracula's fierce countenance softened at their woe, and he went to them with his arms held wide to receive them. "My darlings, do not cry. Our children mean much to me, but so long as they remain lifeless I am not truly a father. A day will come when they shall take to the sky to build our kingdom in this wretched mortal world, and I will do what I must to see that dream realised."

He petted his women as they melted against him submissively.

"We understand, master," they cooed. "Forgive us. The prince will be as if we bore him ourselves, and we will love him like one of our own."

The Count pulled away. "Then I must go to him now. He is our future, and he must be protected."

"Then go protect him, my lord," Verona bade. "We will be patient."

And with no further words, Dracula swept his cloak behind his shoulder and disappeared down the corridor. There came the sound of a great pair of wings unfolding, and a few moments later the Count's grotesque silhouette appeared in the large stone window on the face of the castle. And then he vanished without a sound into the night sky.

† † †

Time passes quickly for mortals, and soon the young prince was entering his second year of life. The scourge of vampires afflicting Vaseria had been oddly lessened ever since his birth, and the villagers took it to be a good omen. The queen Isabel was also heavy with her second child, thus instilling greater hope in the townspeople, who looked upon the arrival of the new child to be yet another blessing on them all.

Princess Annabel Ivona was born during the summer of 1866, and though sons were the choice sex where lineages were concerned, Boris Valerious was as proud of his daughter as he was of his son. A celebration like that of her brother's was announced in Anna's honour, and once again the revelry was grand and festive.

Upon discovery of yet another of his enemy's progeny, Dracula soundly cursed the gypsy king and took flight to attend the ball being held that evening at Valerious Manor. The infant daughter held no interest to the Count, other than being but one more obstacle he would one day be forced to contend with—he had come to see Velkan.

Clad once more in an unassuming disguise, Vladislaus Dracula slipped past the sentries unnoticed and infiltrated the festivities at the heart of the estate that had once been his home, now his hated foe's. He pushed his way through dancing and wassailing crowds, hoping to catch a glimpse of the prince at the head of the room. While waiting, he grew impatient and irritated by the idiotic mortals around him who were so oblivious to the danger with which they were mingling. However, he dared not reveal himself and cause a row; it would be most damaging to his later plans.

Very soon he had tested the limits of his tolerance and found that he could not endure the obnoxious activities any longer; he departed with haste and, once outside in the safety of the shadows, took the form of a black owl and flew high into the night. He circled about the rooftop spires, searching and listening with his expert senses. At last he detected what he had sought for, and lit upon a tree limb just outside an open window.

Lamplight illuminated the prince's bedroom, and his mother tucked the covers around him, placing a loving kiss to his hot forehead. "Sleep well, Velkan," she murmured. "If you are feeling better in the morning you will be able to see your new baby sister."

"Little sister Anna," the boy said in a small voice, followed by a cough.

"That's right," Isabel laughed and tapped his nose affectionately. "Close your eyes now and rest easy. Good-night, my darling."

"Good-night, Mama."

The queen stood and extinguished the lantern by the bed, and then met the servant who was waiting in the doorway. Though she spoke in a voice that was barely above a whisper, the Count heard her quite clearly: "Check him frequently tonight; there is a cloth in the wash basin to cool his head. If his fever has not broken by morning I shall summon the doctor."

"Yes, my lady."

Isabel stole a glance at her son. "I fear that this is more than simply a common sickness."

The door closed and the room was silent, save for a few raspy coughs that came from time to time, until at last they stopped altogether. Dracula, with his owlish guise, flew to the window and landed on the sill, listening and watching to make certain that the prince was fast asleep. A short while later the Count spread his wings and glided soundlessly into the room, then shifted once more into his usual man-shaped form. He approached Velkan's bed and gazed down at the boy, whose gentle sleepy breaths were marked by a faint wheezing.

Frowning, Vladislaus removed his glove and kneeled, placing his lifelessly cold hand to the child's forehead; he lifted it quickly, for Velkan burned with a heat uncharacteristic of normal humans. The Count was terribly alarmed. With a reluctance inspired by a mounting feeling of dread, he leaned over the child and placed his ear to his chest, listening to the rough, laboured echoes of breath reverberate through the boy's small frame.

He drew away slowly and stared. Though the Count was far from calling himself a doctor, he had the advantage of an eternal life and the added experience of seeing mortals around him fall to every embodiment of illness imaginable. He had seen these symptoms before, and they were the harbingers of diphtheria, a disease that affected and often claimed the lives of nearly all the children who contracted it. Worse yet, there was no cure.

For several long moments, Vladislaus abandoned his cautions and remained by the prince's bed, gazing at the life that was doomed to end almost as soon as it had begun. Though Dracula would have welcomed such an unfortunate tiding upon his enemy's family, he had plans for Velkan—he had succeeded in affirming the infant's soul, snatching it from God's hands with every intention of using it against Him, and the Count could not allow his victory to be spoiled by a miserable thing like mortality.

There was also something else, and it stirred within his still heart like a faint, dying ember. It was sadness.

"I will not lose you, my prince," whispered Dracula, removing his cloak with sudden haste. "You are far too precious to me."

He touched Velkan's feverish cheek and smiled, then slowly the Count began to fade, forming into a dark mist that swirled in the air and hovered over the boy's face; with a single motion, the shadow disappeared into his mouth.

Dracula, encased in living flesh, coursed through the prince's lungs and into his blood, seeking out the disease and destroying it molecule by molecule. He poured his hatred and determination into the annihilation of every malignant cell, becoming in and of himself a malicious cure with vengeful devices.

Though Dracula had taken Velkan from God, God would not take Velkan from Dracula.

Once the last trace of sickness had been eradicated, the mist coalesced from between the prince's parted lips and gathered its mass into a solid state once more. Vladislaus stood wearily, greatly weakened from such elaborate use of his powers –powers which were never intended to do what he had just done– and drew his cloak around himself.

"Sleep well, little one," he murmured, brushing the dark locks from Velkan's forehead, "and live to see another night."

As he listened to the now clear, even breathing of the child, Dracula felt an odd sensation growing somewhere inside the void where his soul had once dwelt. He only half-recognised it, like a vague, distant memory from hundreds of years past, and its shining light clashed with every fibre in his wicked corporation: it was the light of compassion.

Vladislaus was almost disgusted with himself and would have gladly atoned for his otherwise noble deed by inciting a massacre in the town square, but he was far too exhausted from his medicinal endeavours and wished for only the numbing comfort of his ice-entombed coffin. Summoning forth his winged shape once more, he flew from the window and into the trees.

The very next morning, Prince Velkan was a bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked youngster as he should be, and both Isabel and Boris thanked God for blessing their son's illness with a swift and miraculous recovery.

_To Be Continued..._


	3. The Violinist

**Father  
****Author:** H.J. Bender  
**Pairing:** --  
**Rating:** T  
**Summary:** A seven year-old Velkan gets lost in the forest and meets a nameless man in black...  
**Disclaimer:** Main characters, events, original storyline, etc belong to Universal Studios 2004.  
**A/N:** I have taken a few liberties with ages and dates, though minimally. Enjoy.

_I am the corner of all rooms  
__I am the shadows of all trees…  
__I am the nightmare of all fathers.  
__-_Rammstein, _Mann gegen Mann_

**III. The Violinist**

How quickly the seasons changed for one to whom time had lost all meaning; the lush green forests of summer burst into a radiant fire of colours when the first whisper of coldness swept down from the Carpathians, then the flames of autumn would fade, leaving the trees naked for the blankets of snow to cloak. And then, when the sun shone through the bleak wintry clouds and the winds brought the breath of life back to the earth once more, the cycle would start again, never pausing, never ending, but continuing onward as it had since its Creation.

How brief was human life in the eyes of eternity—and the innocence of childhood was even briefer.

On the eve of Velkan's seventh birthday, his father Boris took him aside by the great hearth in his study and sat the prince on his knee. "You've grown another inch, little man," he said warmly, which made the boy smile. "Soon you will have to look after your mother and sister when I'm away on business, and I know that is not an easy task."

"Especially Anna," said Velkan matter-of-factly.

The king chuckled. "Yes, especially little Anna. But looking after others demands responsibility and good judgment; it is a man's work."

"I am man enough, Papa," the boy insisted, puffing out his chest boldly. "I can do it."

"And I don't doubt you, Velkan. However, Man cannot accomplish all things on his own—he first needs guidance and discipline." Boris drew from his pocket a gleaming crucifix of silver, etched in intricate detail about the edges, with a small, solitary ruby set in its centre, signifying a single drop of blood.

Velkan seemed surprised to see it, but obediently bowed his head and allowed his father to latch the chain around his neck.

"A man will look to himself for answers," said the king, "but only a true man will look to God, for His knowledge is infinite and His mercy is everlasting. Never forget that He is with you, Velkan, nor that He is your greatest strength. _Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed_-"

"-_for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest_," the prince finished, quoting the book of Joshua.

Boris smiled at his son and embraced him tightly. "Yes," he said, "I believe you are man enough." He drew back and ruffled Velkan's dark brown hair affectionately. "But you are still _my_ little man, and right now it is your bed-time. Your mother would be most sore with me for keeping you up, so run along now."

"Thank you for the present, Papa," said Velkan, embracing his father once again before sliding from his knee. "Good-night."

The king nodded with a smile. "Sweet dreams, my boy."

† † †

Years ago, when Velkan had first become old enough to sleep in a bed of his own, his mother used to coax the energetic youngster to sleep with bible stories, fairy tales, and legends of great Romanian warriors. On certain nights when Isabel was busy tending to baby Anna, the king would offer a bed-time story in her stead. Velkan liked best his father's stories, for they were always thrilling, full of heroism and danger and the triumph of good over evil; his favourite was the story of David and Goliath, the pious shepherd boy who felled the heathen Philistine with nothing more than his sling and a stone.

Papa always acted out his stories in such a way that Velkan was often left awake with excitement long after the lamps had cooled. On these nights he would crawl from his bed and sit in the window with the night breeze sweeping into his room, and gaze out at the shadowy mountains and black forests, peaceful and unafraid. His parents warned him against leaving his shutters wide open at night, and they even went so far as to put a locking latch on the window when he had failed to obey. But Velkan was a sharp lad with a keen eye for hinges, bolts and locks, and he could easily unfasten his window and then lock it back so that no one would be the wiser.

Isabel wondered for her son, who seemed so fearless during even the most terrifying thunderstorms that struck in the summer months; never once did he creep into his parents' bed seeking shelter, nor did he whimper and cower as did other children, but gazed at the lightning without flinching and counted the moments between claps of thunder. Boris claimed that Velkan had the makings of a hero, and the king was all the prouder for fathering such a unique child.

The young prince feared no evil, but delighted in stories of monsters, villains and ghouls as much as a child would fancy unicorns and fairies. Even his dreams were untouched by nightmares, though some left him troubled when morning dawned: images of snowy wastelands shut in by a wall of black mountains, along with the musical voices of women whom he believed to be angels, soaring above his head in their glittering white vestments. And there was always _him_, the faceless man draped in sheets of flowing ebony, with the comforting voice and the welcoming arms held out to receive him. They were not unpleasant dreams, but they caused Velkan to act strangely withdrawn for the rest of the day.

Darkness held no dread for the prince, who could find his way through an unfamiliar room with his eyes closed; shadows instilled no terror in him, for they were as natural as the wind and rain. Neither did he fear what dwelt in the shadows—he was fascinated by the spiders who spun their tangled webs in the cellar, and he once even succeeded in catching a lovely black spider with red spots on her back, and brought it to his mother as a gift. Isabel had screamed and called Boris to come and kill the creature before it bit Velkan.

Little did the boy realise that the spiders with whom he enjoyed playing were of the deadly _Latrodectus_ genus, a speciæ whose venom was ten times as potent as the most vicious viper's. How he avoided being bitten for so long was nothing short of miraculous. Velkan pleaded with his father, insisting that they were peaceful creatures when given care, but even the boy's tears did not stop Boris from destroying every spider in the cellar. Velkan was dismal for days thereafter, but, as was the way of children, he soon forgot about playing in the dark and spent his playtime outside in the sunshine with Anna.

On one such particular day, in early summer when the leaves on the trees made the forest dark and green, Velkan heard a curious sound, like that of a violin. He stopped his game of Knights with his sister and paused, listening.

"Did you hear that?" he asked of Anna, who was preoccupied with attacking a dead tree stump with stick-sword.

"No," piped the little girl. "I just hear birds. Aah! The dragon's coming for me! Back, evil serpent!"

Velkan frowned and cast a glance over at their nanny, who was sitting on a short stone wall several paces away and reading a book; she was greatly engrossed with it. Anna, in the meanwhile, was imitating a fiery battle between a dragon and a maiden knight and was far too busy swinging at the stump to notice anything else. Forgetting about their game entirely, Velkan stealthily slipped into the forest and began to follow the sound.

As he walked haltingly between the trees, he became certain that he was not simply hearing things. Someone was playing a violin in the forest, wherefore he could only imagine. The notes were lyrical and melodious, but filled with an underlying sadness that touched the prince's heart. It was no song that he recognised, nor was it like anything played by the local minstrels. This was the saddest and most beautiful song he had ever heard. He simply _must_ know who the musician was.

With renewed determination, Velkan veered off of the beaten path that led through the forest and tramped his way through scratchy shrubs and briars that clung to his clothes as if to hold him back. Thorns scraped his skin and left bleeding scratches on his face and arms, and once he lost his footing under a loose stone and laid his knee open against a twisted tree root. But he was on his feet again without a pause, driven by his resolve to find the maker of that enchanting music.

Unnoticed by the prince, the forest had grown darker as he travelled deeper into its inhospitable heart. The tree trunks were mouldy and rotted, strangled to death by parasitic vines and choked at their feet by weeds. The earth became hard and stony, and branches entwined overhead so as to block any ray of sunlight from filtering down through the dead canopy. Low areas were wrapped in mist, and though the breeze was not calm this day, the woods were still and silent, as if its very breath had been stolen by an unseen poison.

And then suddenly, the music stopped.

The foggy haze that had inadvertently crept into Velkan's mind abruptly cleared, and he found himself standing in the company of unfriendly trees and a predatory stillness that lay enshrouded in mist between their boughs. The prince was alarmed but unafraid, and he was also completely lost. The pain of his self-inflicted wounds came to him in a rush, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to be back at the manor. What time was it? How long had he been following that song? How had he ended up in this part of the forest? Had it all been a day-dream? Velkan had no recollection, and he was direly perturbed.

He began to walk, but without a sense of direction. For all he knew he could be wandering deeper into the unknown. How long would it be until somebody missed him? How long would it take to find him? What if he were stranded here for days, for weeks? How would he survive?

Tears stung Velkan's eyes, but he wiped them away before they could fall down his cheeks. He was not sad, but angry –_furious_– with himself for doing such a stupid thing like following music that had only been in his head. If he ever got out of this in one piece, his father was surely going to whip him terribly. Trekking this far into the forest was strictly forbidden due to the dangers that lurked within it, both man and beast, and only a fool would put himself at risk so readily.

Velkan reached up and wrapped his hand around his silver crucifix, reciting verses of comfort softly to himself: "_The Lord is my shepherd. I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my-_"

The toe of his boot suddenly caught itself on a knotted root, sending him crashing down a steep embankment with hazardous speed. Head over heels he tumbled, striking rocks and dead tree limbs and tearing through spiny undergrowth. Helpless to slow himself, Velkan could only cover his head with his arms and pray for survival.

He finally rolled to a stop and lay on his back, waiting for his world to stop spinning. He lowered his arms and opened his eyes slowly, and stared at the bleak canopy above him. He was afraid to move for some time, fearful that he might have broken his spine or his legs, and so lay motionless. The bank from which he had fallen loomed to his right like a mountain, and he wondered how he could have ever lived through such a violent descent.

Suddenly, there came the sound of softly approaching footsteps. Velkan closed his eyes, thoroughly convinced that he was again hearing things. But then a voice with a deep, archaic accent said to him, "Is the little prince dead, I wonder?"

Velkan could not have imagined _that_; he sat up with a start and beheld a man dressed smartly in black, standing a few paces away, looking down at him with concern. He had a handsomely mature face, not quite as old as Papa but neither as young as Rojer the stableboy. His long, dark hair was pinned back, giving him a well-groomed appearance—he was certainly a man of some importance, probably from one of the neighbouring towns. What a proper gentleman was doing in the middle of the Vaserian wilderness was a mystery.

"Pardon me, sir, but who might you be?" Velkan inquired, minding his manners.

"I am many things," said the man with a kind smile.

Velkan frowned slightly at the stranger's evasiveness, but then his eyes widened when he saw a violin case in the man's left hand.

"It was. Y-you were…"

"This?" asked the stranger, lifting the case. "I like to call myself a musician on occasion, though I prefer to play alone for the sake of others' ears. I am quite the novice yet."

"So it _was_ you I heard. And I thought all this time I was losing my mind!" But Velkan's delight at finding the source of the music was brief—his wariness kept him alert. "What are you doing all the way out here?"

The man was undeterred by the question. "The forest is peaceful and quiet," he said. "I enjoy its walks."

"But… sir, you are very far from the walking trail."

"Well, we cannot all travel the same path, can we?" Another overly-generous smile graced the stranger's face before he nodded to the boy's leg. "You are injured."

"Yes, sir. It was an accident. I fell."

"That will not do, I am afraid," sighed the man, who set his violin on the ground and kneeled down to the prince, sweeping his black cloak aside. Velkan was struck with a sense of déjà vu from the motion of the cloth and the way the man's arms reached out for him—it was as if he had had a dream about this man, but he couldn't remember all of the sudden…

"You have cut it deep," murmured the stranger, examining the wound through the tear in the boy's trouser knee. "You will develop a fever if it is not cleaned. The blood… still runs."

For an instant Velkan saw a terrifying glimmer of something _not right_ pass through the man's eyes, and then it was gone with a blink. Panic bloomed in the pit of Velkan's stomach, but another amicable smile melted away any inhibition he harboured.

Said the man, "I could heal it quite easily, if you would like."

"Will it hurt?"

"Only for a moment," came the assurance, and Velkan nodded his consent. "Then look away."

And so the prince did, biting his lip and gazing at the trees while waiting for the pain to present itself. He felt what could have been warm breath on his knee, and then something moist pressed itself into the cut. It stung only for a second, and then a pleasant sensation of numbness eased away the discomfort.

Velkan's hand gripped the dead leaves and pine needles as he awaited permission to turn back. His curiosity was burning within him, raging like a wildfire until he was hopelessly engulfed. He _wanted_ to know what the man was doing to him, no matter how gruesome it might be. With incredible tact and composure, Velkan very slowly turned his head around.

The man in black was leaning over the boy's wound, administering what would have been painful swaths of his tongue to the cut. However, Velkan felt not a thing, save for a fathomless shock that gripped his entire frame and held it rigid with fear. The man licked the cut almost hungrily, closing his mouth over it in imitation of a vulgar kiss. The sight was quite obscene, yet Velkan was soothed by the caresses. Gradually his initial feelings of horror subsided, and he watched this unorthodox practise without revulsion.

The stranger's ornate pin suddenly caught the prince's fancy: it was carved from onyx with meticulous detail, fashioned at the broad end into the shape of a roosting bat with tiny polished gems for its eyes. Without giving a second thought, Velkan reached out and drew it from the dark hair, which slipped free and cascaded down upon the man's shoulders. The man lifted his head, the surprise on his face apparent; bright red blood stained his lips, which he slowly licked away.

"You have undone me," he murmured.

"I… forgive me," Velkan whispered half-fearfully, and looked down at the glimmering pin in his hand. "It's just so beautiful. I've never seen anything like it."

Suddenly a cool, pale hand touched his own small one, closing his fingers over the pin. "Keep it," said the man. "Your courage alone has earned it."

"But," stammered Velkan, "but I couldn't. I have nothing to give you in return."

The stranger smiled oddly and licked his lips. "But you _have_ given me something, my child, and it is more precious than any pin."

Velkan said nothing, but looked to his knee where once an ugly gash would have left a permanent scar—his flesh was completely healed, the only sign of injury being the faint traces of blood around the rip in his trousers. Questions battered his mind in a hurricane of confusion and curiosity, and at the eye of the storm, calm and serene while surrounded by billowing chaos, stood a dark figure Velkan felt as if he had known all his life. The questions did not matter any more, for their answers would make no difference.

"Play your violin for me," the prince begged softly, staring into the man's eyes. "I want to hear that song again."

It had been said that no mortal creature could stare into the eyes of Count Vladislaus Dragulia and remain unaffected by his powers. But in that moment, alone in the forest, the greatest vampire that haunted the earth was not only rendered powerless by the gypsy prince, but was enchanted by him as well. The brutal beast that dominated the Count's emotions was tamed by a pair of sapphire eyes, the same eyes that had seen straight through him the first night they had met.

"Very well," said Dracula in an unsteady voice as he reached for his violin. "I will play you your song, little prince."

And the Count sat upon a large rock and played the hauntingly sad melody while Velkan, entranced by its beauty, lay his head on the man's lap and listened with passive appreciation, growing ever more drowsy. The tune seemed to flow into his ear like water and absorb into his brain, and it spoke to him in no words of mortal tongue that this man cared for him, and that it was Velkan's destiny to stay with him for ever.

Suddenly the sound of voices calling his name brought the prince forth from his slumber, and he rose to discover that he was on the edge of his family's property, not far from where he and Anna had been playing earlier. The sky was dark; it was nearly dusk. How long had he been asleep? Was it not just noon?

Pushing the questions aside, Velkan crawled to his feet and made briskly towards the calls. His entire family, along with several servants and village huntsmen, received him with both frustration and gratefulness. While Isabel smothered him with embraces and kisses, Boris ranted heedlessly: "Where have you been all this time? Your mother has almost worried herself into an early grave over you, not to mention your poor nanny who has been crying all afternoon! Whatever explanations you have for them had better be good."

"I'm sorry, Papa," Velkan said timidly. "I can't remember."

"He can't _remember_?" one of the huntsmen echoed dubiously.

"But it is the truth! I swear it! Anna and I were playing in the clearing over there, and then I… think I wandered off. I thought I got lost in the forest, but maybe it was a dream. Yes, it had to have been a dream; I heard music and I fell down a hill –fell for _ages, _Papa– and my knee was bleeding, and-"

"Velkan," his father warned, "lying only makes the truth more difficult to tell."

"But I'm not lying, Papa! See! My knee is still-" But when the boy looked down, there was not a scratch upon him. "It can't be. I was telling the truth! You have to believe me, I wouldn't tell a lie!"

"All right, Velkan, calm down," Boris sighed, placing his hand upon his son's small shoulder. "I believe you."

"You do?"

"I believe that you have a very big imagination for a little boy, and that you most likely fell asleep and had a fantastic dream."

"But I didn't have a dream, Papa, it was real! There was a man with a violin, and, and he-"

"Hush now, Velkan. You've had an exciting day as it is. You can tell us all about your dream after supper. Come along then, there's a good lad."

The prince sadly climbed into his father's arms and was carried back to the manor, though he kept his eyes on the woods until he could see them no more.

Velkan didn't speak another word of his adventure to anyone later that evening, nor ever again. He decided that if Mama and Papa didn't want to believe him, then he ought not to try their patience by telling them about the musician in the forest, nor of the onyx pin that he discovered in his trouser pocket just before bed-time. He kept it all to himself, and so it became his most treasured secret.

After being tucked snugly into bed that night, the boy lay restless and wide awake, unable to sleep in the silence. He finally crawled out of his bed and unfastened the latch on his window, opening it wide and taking in the fresh, cool breeze of the summer night. He stared out above the forest's roof of leaves while he twirled the pin in his fingers and listened, perhaps, for the faint sound of a violin echoing through the trees.

_To Be Continued..._

_**Special:** There is a link to a music clip of the violin song on my fanfiction journal site (halofiction. livejournal. com/ 3852. html) at the bottom of the page._


	4. The Three Angels

**Father  
****Author:** H.J. Bender  
**Pairing:** --  
**Rating:** T  
**Summary:** Stranded in a fearsome hailstorm with his little sister, Velkan is visited by three beautiful angels...  
**Disclaimer:** Main characters, events, original storyline, etc belong to Universal Studios 2004.  
**A/N:** I have taken a few liberties with ages and dates, though minimally. Enjoy.

_I am the corner of all rooms  
__I am the shadows of all trees…  
__I am the nightmare of all fathers.  
__-_Rammstein, _Mann gegen Mann_

**IV. The Three Angels**

Days passed, the months yielded themselves with each phase of the moon, and the seasons swept through their colours like dancers dressed in dazzling costumes. Holidays came and went like the ebb of the tide, bringing with it death, birth, and the inevitable process called Life that took place in between. Time, that petty thing which had in the past been no cause for concern for the Count, now worried him as he watched his estranged son grow tall from afar. Human lives were brief and fragile, regardless of whatever immortal influence they carried on their souls, and the child must be watched closely to ensure his survival. And survive he must.

From the moment when they had met face to face in the forest, Vladislaus knew that Velkan was truly the One, the Key to the Draconian rule, the child he had so desired. The prince had stared into his eyes with neither terror nor abhorrence, but only with curiosity. He was fearless like the living man the Count had once been, unaltered by the mysterious, revelled by the things that struck horror in the hearts of men. Vlad had gazed into the boy's mind for an instant, read the years of his brief life like the pages of a book, and for the first time in centuries, thought he could remember how happiness felt.

Velkan Valerious had died the day he was born, and Velkan Dragulia had been resurrected from what would have been a worthless mortal corpse. What the Count was doing now –cultivating a human being and shaping him into his heir and ally– was unheard of and unimaginable, but his efforts were beginning to bear fruit; the boy did not require manipulation of the mind in order to do what Vlad expected of him. This was a pleasing discovery indeed.

"He grows closer to us, fonder of us, with each passing night," he told his brides as they lay nestled against him in their ebony bower, eager to hear news of their beloved son. "The dreams that we send him are well-received, and his heart remains unsoiled by the stain of the Valerious hatred. His blood runs dark, my lovelies, as dark as ours. I tasted myself in him, the bitterness of a dying angel and the sweetness of an awakening demon. If we stay our course, he might sooner be joining our family."

"It shall be wonderful having him here with us," Verona crooned, nuzzling her husband's neck seductively. "Our first child."

"Yes," agreed Marishka. "The prince of all our young."

"Tell us, master, what does he look like?" Aleera asked, combing her elegant fingers through Vlad's hair.

"He is beautiful," said the Count with a distant smile. "Like no other child in this whole wretched world. He will be tall and strong in his prime, and he is clever, attentive of his tutors. He is principled, fair of face, and well-spoken like a proper prince, mindful of his manners. He sparkles like a jewel amongst the refuse of humanity, who are but lowly swine in comparison. Valerious could never have sired such nobility, not in a thousand years."

"He is only thus because of you, my lord," Verona whispered.

"Already he takes after his true father," murmured Marishka as she wrapped herself around the Count.

Aleera echoed, "Whatever grace he possesses is what he has inherited from you, master. I cannot wait to see Valerious when the prince sides with us against him. Such sweet vengeance it shall be!"

"So it will," Vlad said with assurance. "But let us not forget our other children, my darlings. They too shall share the glory when we triumph over our enemies."

"We have not forgotten our own," Marishka insisted. "Though we wonder when they shall fly the night with us."

"Do not worry," the Count said. "The times are changing, and the world grows more modern with each year. There are great machines being built by men, engines of steel and iron and pistons, metal dragons of the earth who breathe smoke and ash and are powered by fire. Science is progressing. Mankind has discovered ways to battle diseases and open a living body to mend its insides without killing it, and mortality continues to decline. There is also much to be invested in the study of electricity; I have heard of western scientists performing experiments with promising results, and I believe that this element will aid us in time soon enough.

"There is a revolution taking place now –Man's revolution– a symbol of his refuting against God. Science is the new religion of the world, my precious ones, and it shall serve our purpose, of that I am certain."

"I know nothing of machines or science," Aleera said in a lazy, sultry voice, "but I know how to please my master."

"You can concern yourself the progress of Man," purred Verona as she and Marishka shed their clothes. "Let us care for nothing but you and our children."

Vlad smiled as the pale bodies of his immortally beautiful brides slithered against him, yielding themselves to his dominance. "Very well," he breathed. "Then let us make certain that the world will not be empty when we rid it of God's children."

† † †

Velkan had entered his ninth year when Boris decided that he was old enough to begin learning the ways of the world and the evil that dwelt in it, though he spared him the reasons wherefore just yet. The prince would ride out with his father's small party of patrolmen and hunters, who surveyed the borders at the edge of the wilderness and offered their knowledge to him openly. He began receiving lessons in fencing, bow-shooting and trapping, and quickly advanced through each art with amazing skill for a young boy. Boris could not have been prouder.

Anna, with her brother but two years her seniour, was sad and jealous of the attention he received from their father, and at last Isabel went to her husband to demand that their daughter be allowed to train along with Velkan.

"She is just as gifted as Velkan and more than willing," the gypsy queen argued. "And you know as well as I that it would be in her best interest if she were instructed how to defend herself. At least then she could assist Velkan when he is out on the hunt, and he would have an ally he could trust with his life. You cannot deny that they would make an exceptional pair of fighters."

"Isabel, darling," Boris sighed, "the hunt is no place for a woman. It is a man's job, and always has been. There is a reason fathers do not allow their daughters to march off to war."

"So you would have Velkan face his destiny alone?" she snapped.

"I would have Anna survive were anything to happen to him, and keep the Valerious bloodline running strong."

"You would sacrifice one of our children for the sake of our grandchildren? How can you justify-"

"I would sacrifice none if I could help it!" Boris shouted, then lowered his voice when Isabel appeared hurt. "I cannot undo the past, Isabel, otherwise I would have taken you and the children as far away from this God-forsaken land as possible. But there is an oath I must keep, and generations of ancestors that must be released from Purgatory. I cannot walk away from my purpose, nor can I allow the Valerious lineage to fade."

"Then train them both, not just one," the queen begged. "Together, Velkan and Anna can become a fighting force that will drive fear into Dracula's very heart."

The king sighed, knowing that his argument was already lost. "Say that I allow her to undergo the same instruction as Velkan—what then of her nature? She cannot wear dresses, so she must be forced to wear trousers like a boy. Whatever feminine innocence she has now will be lost, and she will stand alone if Velkan, God forbid, falls at the hands of our enemies. Then she would be forced both to fight and to mother, and she cannot do both. Should we choose to bestow her this responsibility, she will become hardened and tough, our sweet little girl, and her days will be darkened by the burden we have placed on her shoulders. And what sort of man would marry a woman who wears trousers and fights like a ruffian?"

"O Boris!" Isabel laughed, and embraced her husband. "Do not worry about giving Anna away just yet. She has many years to go before she starts thinking of marriage, and if you have not noticed, she is the loveliest creature on this earth. No amount of ruggedness could hide that."

"She must have gotten that from her mother," Boris said with a smile, "because I fear my ruggedness stole my good looks years ago."

"My dear king, it takes a person of true character to fall in love with a Valerious, this I know from experience," Isabel teased. "Anna will have no difficulty finding a husband, and neither will Velkan a wife. We have two of the finest children in the country, Boris, and they are capable of finding happiness while carrying out our family's legacy."

And thus it was settled that Anna soon begin training alongside her brother, and it proved to be a wise decision after all; they worked excellently as a team, and the little princess put forth twice the effort that Velkan did in order to compensate for her youth and her sex. Both were upright and sensible youngsters, obedient of their elders and respectful of all whom they met, no matter how disagreeable a character it was—such as the village undertaker, with his moth-eaten stovepipe hat and leering grin, or the innkeeper and his ill-tempered mongrel who did not even offer a salute in their presence. The rest of the town paid no mind to these scalawags, and always welcomed the Valerious children whenever they appeared in the village square.

Velkan and Anna were allowed to move more freely about Vaseria as they became deft in their combating skills. They were granted a steed, providing that they both saddled and bridled it themselves and cared for it accordingly, though they were not permitted to roam about the wilderness and always were to be back before dusk, lest they face the wrath of their father and guilt of their mother. This seldom happened, being that they were very disciplined, but on the rare occasion it simply could not be helped.

One cold afternoon in November, when they were allowed leisure time after their lessons, a sudden squall swept down from the mountains and poured freezing rain and hail upon their heads, and they were driven to seek shelter in the old windmill not far from where they had been riding in the field. They were both drenched to the bone and miserable, and Velkan's flint and steel failed to make fire from any of the damp, mouldy kindling. The children had no choice but to sit in the dark, huddled to each other for warmth, and wait for the thunderous hailstorm to tire itself.

An hour passed, and still the rain continued to pound on the rickety roof, which leaked like a sieve into the already dank interior. The wood groaned as it grew heavy from the moisture and the abusive hail, and the creaking of its weak walls was terrifying. Velkan feared the whole structure to collapse if the storm did not soon abate, and Anna, despite her attempt to be courageous, cried quietly as she clung to her older brother.

"Have faith, Anna," he said, bolstering his courage. "It will pass. God is watching over us."

"Then why doesn't He stop the storm?" she wheedled, wiping away her tears. "I wish we had never gone out today. I'm cold and wet and I want to go home."

"I have an idea," said Velkan, standing up. "I'm going to go up to the top of the mill and see which way the storm is moving. Maybe then we can ride out and go around it."

"No, Velkan!" cried Anna. "The stairs are shaky and old. I don't want you to fall!"

"I won't fall. Besides, you want to go home, don't you? If I can see what path the storm is taking, we won't have to spend another minute here. That sounds reasonable, doesn't it?"

Anna nodded slowly and reluctantly. "All right," she agreed, "but be careful. And hurry back."

Velkan nodded his promise and ascended the winding, decrepit stairway that led up to the tower. He tested each stair carefully before setting his weight upon it, and slowly, step by step, made his way to the small door at the top of the windmill. He could hear the hail cracking down against the framework of the wooden mill blades, and he eased the door open only enough to peer out into the tempest.

It was a sleeting downpour, peppered with large granules of ice that hurled themselves from the sky at painful velocities. Velkan pushed the door wide with a rusty creak and shielded his eyes from a sudden lashing gust that threatened to sweep him back down into the stairwell. Despite even these violent conditions, the prince stepped out onto the treacherous platform with an unsteady balance, trying to find some way to look up into the sky without being blinded by hail.

Just then, a mighty gale threw its fury full against the boy, who lost his footing on the icy platform and was sent somersaulting backwards over the parapet. Only by virtue of his quick reflexes did he manage to grab hold of the slippery rail before plummeting downwards. Heart hammering in his chest and his thoughts racing by in a dizzying blur of instincts, Velkan fought to keep his eyes open and secure his grip, but his fingers were numb from the cold and the rail was too slick with ice.

"O God, please," he begged as his left hand slid away, leaving him separated from death only by his five remaining fingers. Hot tears welled in his eyes as he thought of Anna, his father, his poor mother, and he felt his right hand gradually begin to weaken from the weight of his body. No Valerious should die so shamefully. He was a disgrace to his entire family.

"Help me, Father," he prayed. "Help-"

Velkan felt the rail slip from his grasp, and his stomach churned with the wings of a thousand butterflies as gravity claimed him in its sickening pull towards certain death. He shut his eyes bravely and waited for the final sound of his own bones breaking, but he heard nothing. His heart beat thrice, and he opened his eyes.

He was hovering, it seemed, in midair, neither falling nor rising. Being mercilessly pelted by the rain, he looked down between his dangling legs to see the sodden, icy ground dozens of feet below him. And then, from behind him, he heard the sweet, melodious voice of a woman say, "Take care, my dearest one. You could have fallen."

Velkan felt himself rise into the air, above the parapet, and then he was safely delivered to the platform once more, drenched and shaking. He turned around, wincing in the brutal rain that obscured his vision; he could barely make out a floating figure in white –a young woman she seemed– with her long hair flowing about her peacefully.

"Are you an angel?" he asked softly, and heard an answering jingle of laughter.

"I am anything you wish me to be, your highness," she said with a smile, then swooped up into the storm.

In the sky high above his head, Velkan heard more delicate voices tittering and singing eerie notes that seemed to resonate within the walls of rain. The wind suddenly shifted and began to whorl with especial ferocity, and the chorales in the clouds rang through the atmosphere in harmonies that did not exist in the known world. The hail suddenly ceased to beat itself upon the earth and the wind grew colder, stealing the weight of the rain as it was transformed into snow.

Another gust swept past Velkan, and he heard a tremendous groan as the old windmill began to churn to life. He shivered, his breath visible in the frigid air, and watched as the fearsome hailstorm slowly dissipated into a gentle snowfall. The silence was almost deafening compared to the raucous din that had been present but moments before.

The air cleared as the humidity condensed and became snow, and Velkan could at last see the altered landscape: a peaceful blanket of white spread out over the entire valley, covering the rooftops of the village below the hill and drifting to the faraway foothills of the jagged mountains. It was a welcome wintry scene, though snow this early in November was unheard of, unnatural, impossible.

"It cannot be," Velkan whispered to himself, staring up at the heavy sky.

"You have much to learn, dear child," came a voice from behind, and he turned to behold three magnificent women drifting through the air above him, their lightly-coloured robes sprinkled with glittering jewels and their bodies adorned with sparkling silver. Velkan gasped and stepped backwards, eliciting chimes of laughter from the ladies, who sailed down to stand on the platform with him.

"You need not fear us, Velkan," said the one with the dark hair.

"We have been sent by our master to protect you when he is away," the woman with the flame-coloured hair murmured.

"Look, sisters. He is as perfect as our lord said he was," cooed the third, brushing Velkan's wet hair away from his eyes. "Handsome like his true father."

"A beautiful child," the dark haired one agreed, caressing his cold cheek delicately.

"I adore him already!"

The boy was transfixed in utter shock—surely these exquisite beings were angels, for what else could they be? They spoke as if they had known him since the beginning of his life, and the mentions of their lord could only mean that they were servants of God Himself. No fairer creatures had Velkan ever seen, save for what apparitions lay in his dreams, and the magical bed-time stories of his tender years had taught him that nothing evil is ever lovely. The only thing that troubled the prince now was the fact that he could be seeing angels only because he was already dead.

"Am I in Heaven?" he ventured, and the angels sang with laughter.

"Not yet, dear one, but soon the world shall be ours," said Marishka, taking up one of his hands while Aleera grasped his other.

"Would you care to see what it is like to be one of us?" she asked with a dazzling grin, and before Velkan could answer, he was lifted off his feet as the three women rose into the air and soared through the falling snow.

Velkan let out a cry and closed his eyes, horrified of looking down at his death once more, but a comforting voice said from beneath him, "Open your eyes, my child. You will not fall; I am here to catch you."

So the prince opened his eyes, and Verona smiled up at him as she flew safely below. The ground passed swiftly from their altitude, growing smaller as they climbed higher into the sky, above the snow, close enough to touch the peaks of the mountains. Velkan gasped at the sheer exhilaration, his body weightless and free from the earth's grasp, and he found himself laughing as the angels dipped and turned him in the air, gliding effortlessly to and fro like a flock of jubilant birds. He forgot all fear, and he forgot how to feel the bitter cold, his mind locked in a trance of happiness that he had never felt before in his life.

"How do you like it, my prince?" Marishka asked him.

"I love it!" Velkan cried with a delighted smile upon his face.

"You can stay with us, Velkan," whispered Aleera. "Stay with us forever."

"Forget the world below," said Verona, "for it is filled with useless things. If you come with us, you may fly to your heart's desire. You can go wherever you please, do whatever you like. You can see the world, Velkan, my love: the golden sands of Egypt, the blue waters of the tropics, the bright lights of Paris. They will be yours. None shall stop you, and none shall ever take your wings. You will remain eternal, young and strong as we are, and live only for that which makes you happiest. So tell us, little prince, will you join us?"

These were fantastic promises, and Velkan's heart was verily bursting as he imagined being granted such absolute freedom, the power to see and to do and to go wherever he wanted, to travel the world as the angel had told him, and never worry about a single thing again. It was more than he could dream of, more than what anyone on earth could offer to him, even his family.

_His family._

A sharp, icy pang abruptly went through Velkan's heart, and his mind began to clear from the drowsy mist that had enveloped it. "Papa, Mama… Anna," he murmured vaguely, as if he had forgotten about his entire life before this moment.

"Not them," Aleera hushed. "Only you, Velkan."

"But they need me," he said with increasing alarm. "Anna needs me. I… I'm so cold."

"He is not ready," Verona admonished sternly. "He is still bound to the mortals."

"Pity," Marishka sighed. "He is a good flyer."

"Perhaps soon, my prince, you will come to stay with us," Aleera said as they began to descend. "But today is not that day."

† † †

"Velkan. Wake up, Velkan. Please, Velkan, open your eyes."

The gypsy prince slowly came to, and discovered himself inside the old windmill with his sister's worried face peering down at him. "Anna…?" he asked, wondering if she was real or simply a dream-vision.

"You wouldn't wake up and it was scaring me," the little girl said with a tremor of hysteria in her voice. "I was afraid the cold had killed you."

Velkan sat up and looked around. All was quiet and dark, though there was a palpable sense of apprehension hanging thickly in the air. He stared at his sister and tried to collect his thoughts. "What happened? When did I fall asleep?"

"You went up the stairs to look at the storm," said Anna softly. "You were gone for a long time. I got cold, so I went over to sit against the horse. I must have gone to sleep, but when I woke up you were lying here like you are now. You were cold as ice and felt like a dead thing. It scared me. I've been trying to wake you ever since."

The boy rubbed his head which throbbed with pain, and shivered from the aching coldness in his limbs. "Did I dream it all?" he asked himself. "The angels…"

Anna pulled on his arm hurriedly. "Never mind your dreams, Velkan. You are not going to believe what has happened outside. Come and see it!"

Though Velkan was in no mood to entertain the whims of his little sister, he grudgingly crawled to his feet and followed her out of doors. He caught his breath and stared as they emerged into the crisp, frosty air.

The whole world, as far as the eye could see, was covered in a thick layer of pristine new snow.

"Anna," Velkan murmured, "when did this happen?"

"I fell asleep listening to the hail, and when I woke up it looked like Christmastime outside. Come on, Velkan! Let's go home! We can get our coats and play in the snow and-" She stopped mid-sentence when she saw the disturbed look on her brother's face, one she has never witnessed before. "Velkan…? What's wrong with you?"

"I…" he began in a rough voice, then shook his head as he stared into the sky. "Nothing, Anna. Let's leave."

Though the little girl knew that something was troubling her brother, she was well aware that there was nothing she could do to bait his words, no matter how much she begged and annoyed him. She was by now accustomed to these strange moods that Velkan experienced, rare as they were, and knew that later she would be playing in the snow by herself while her brother sat in his room and toyed with that strange black pin of his, humming a sad, unrecognisable tune.

_To Be Continued..._


	5. The Sacrament of Evil

**Father  
****Author:** H.J. Bender  
**Pairing:** --  
**Rating:** T  
**Summary:** A thirteen year-old Velkan begins to understand what he has become, and finally faces the one whom he knows only as 'Father'.  
**Disclaimer:** Main characters, events, original storyline, etc belong to Universal Studios 2004.  
**A/N:** I have taken a few liberties with ages and dates, though minimally. Enjoy.

_I am the corner of all rooms  
__I am the shadows of all trees…  
__I am the nightmare of all fathers.  
__-_Rammstein, _Mann gegen Mann_

**V. The Sacrament of Evil**

It came to pass during the year of 1877 that the townsfolk began to take notice of an oddness about their beloved prince, though the changes that affected him were too gradual to invoke the shock they should have: he ceased to smile, and walked around with a perpetual look of worry etched onto the face which grew handsomer each day. He rarely spoke and seldom laughed anymore, and always he appeared worried and lost, looking about himself as if searching for a familiar face that continued to evade his eyes. One might easily get the impression that his mind was restless, churning mysterious thoughts that he shared with no one.

The clothes he wore were dark, plain and colourless, which was especially unusual for being a child of noble blood, and to whom the means of possessing vibrant, fashionable garments was available. His skin, though fairer than most, was pale and wan, as if he lived in a dark place that never knew the sun's warmth or saw its golden rays. Children of his years were expected to look ruddy and hale, full of hot blood and energy. Velkan possessed energy, but it was unlike that of any child's; he had a shadowy passion that intimidated those around him, even his family, and while he was passive and soft-spoken a great deal of the time, when his temper broke it was a frightful thing.

His father was often the fountainhead of his angst, due largely in part to the increasing burden of Velkan's already difficult training. The king viewed his actions as justifiable, for a year earlier werewolves had returned to the Vaserian forests, and were heretofore responsible for the deaths of nine people and an uncounted number of livestock. The peaceable wolves who dwelt in the woods were driven from their sylvan home by these malicious invaders and subsequently slaughtered by overzealous villagers who feared any four-legged creature with teeth and claws.

The task of ridding the village of these ferocious predators automatically fell on the shoulders of the Valerious family, and the townspeople were anxious to see what prowess the new generation of royalty bore. Velkan was still but a boy, and though his swordsmanship was superiour to all save his father's, he was not ready to join the hunting party just yet. Thus Boris began training his son with almost ruthless intensity, the pressure of perpetuating his lineage with an expert warrior weighing heavily on his greying head. The gypsy king was getting older and his usefulness was declining, this he knew, and it would not be long before he became a liability in the field.

Velkan, for the most part, endured the rigours of his lessons with grim acceptance, though there were times when he questioned his father's reasons for spurring him so relentlessly. Boris had not the heart to rip away what remained of his son's childhood by telling him of his centuries-long obligation to his family, so Velkan's queries often went unanswered. This made for unpleasant rifts in their relationship, and as the prince reached adolescence it became even more difficult for the two to get along.

"He is at that age, Isabel," sighed Boris one evening after a particularly fiery argument which ended in Velkan retreating to his room in a perfect fury. "He is starting to understand how the world works, and yet I worry that teaching him too much will destroy him for ever. He is maturing too quickly for his years, and I know that it is my fault alone. I drive him like a slave to be flawless in his skills, yet I cannot tell him why for fear of ruining his life, if I've not already done so. Tell me, Isabel: am I such a terrible father?"

"Never, Boris," assured the queen. "You are simply doing what is best for him, giving him guidance and discipline when he needs it most. You must be stern with him or else he will never respect you. Years from now, when Velkan has grown up and taken his place at the head of the table, he will thank you for your strictness."

"There is a fine line between a king and a tyrant," Boris muttered dourly. "He must think me a monster for the way I treat him. He has not called me 'Papa' in over a year, did you know?"

"He is thirteen, Boris," said Isabel with a grin. "He cannot still be calling you 'Papa' when he is a full-grown man."

"Perhaps not," the king said, "but he will always be my little boy."

Isabel put down her stitching and walked across the study to sit in her husband's lap, putting her arms around his neck and kissing his cheek comfortingly. "Do not fret, darling. This hardship will pass as he grows out of his moodiness. It comes with the age, you know. He need only understand that you love him unconditionally, and these rough patches will be mended in time. You will see."

"I hope you are right. Perhaps it is time then that he receive his First Communion—I think it would do good for him to be reminded that his Heavenly Father loves him unconditionally as well."

† † †

Velkan had always been uncomfortable in church. He complained that it made his skin crawl and his stomach sour, and that he alternately broke into chills and fevers. His parents only half-believed his claims, and thought that perhaps it was the stale air and draftiness that so affected him. Each Sunday the prince was the first person out of the church once service had ended, bursting through the wooden doors as if the structure were aflame and it was every man for himself. Afterwards he would be quite well again, and Boris assumed that Velkan shared his sentiment when it came to being cooped up in a dusty old church for hours on end.

The cathedral sat on the other side of Vaseria, beside the deep, swiftly-moving waters of the river, and hardly a soul could say that it had not seen better days. The town itself was in a period of decline, and though the gypsy nobility that governed the province had substantial assets, anything of value lay with the land, the estate, and the small but treasured collection of books and ancient arms. Vaseria had never been particularly wealthy to begin with, but its citizens lived comfortably, if humbly, and accepted what they were given from both God and the earth with gratitude.

They had even come to tolerate the supernatural horrors of the vicinity, though much time had passed since a person had last fallen victim to vampirism—over thirteen years to be precise. The townsfolk didn't question why, but counted their blessings and hoped that perchance the Count and his pets had chosen another village to terrorise; Vaseria had more than seen its share of bloodshed.

On the eve of Velkan's first communion, the king hosted a small celebration at the manor, not quite as extravagant as the yearly Christmas or Easter festivities, but with music and dancing as befit the occasion. It was more for the children than anyone, however, Velkan was strangely withdrawn the entire evening, and eventually had to be dragged from his seat by Anna, who demanded that she be given the first dance. It was difficult—if impossible—for the prince to be morose when his little sister made such an attempt to cheer him, so he danced with her as she requested, and had a grand time. The twosome could be quite silly when the caprice struck them, and Velkan spun Anna around until her curls flew loose from her ribbons and she was laughing dizzy. This brief moment of lightheartedness eased the boy's glumness and brought a rare smile to his face.

Later that night, once the great hall had gone dark and the guests had returned home, Anna tip-toed down the corridor to Velkan's room and crawled into his bed. "Papa says you'll be grown up by tomorrow," she whispered to him, huddling close. "What do they do to you at communion?"

"The same thing Mother and Father do at Mass," Velkan answered, allowing her to cling to his side. "You receive the Eucharist, which is rather like what Jesus did at the Last Supper. You are given a bit of unleavened bread to eat, and some wine. It is symbolic of the sacrifice Christ made to free us from sin, His body and His blood, and helps us to resist temptation."

"That doesn't sound too bad." She paused for a moment, as if hesitant to ask, "Why are you so worried?"

"Who said that I was worried?" Velkan feigned ignorance, but in his heart he knew that he was not deceptive enough to hide his feelings from his sister.

"Something is bothering you," said Anna. "You are afraid."

"I am not afraid of anything," Velkan retorted.

"Nonsense. Everybody has something that they fear, even the people who say they don't."

Velkan released a long sigh and stared through the dark at the ceiling. "Before you can receive communion you must first go to confession, and tell the priest every bad thing you've ever done. He will then ask God to forgive your sins, and give you prayers to recite whenever you feel you are straying from the Path. Your conscience must be clean before you can receive the Eucharist."

"Well, you should have no problem," said Anna cheerily. "You've been good all your life."

At this, Velkan turned his head to gaze at his sister with a hopelessly lost expression.

Anna's smile abruptly disappeared. "You _have_ been good all your life… haven't you, Velkan?"

The prince's eyes glistened with tears. "Anna," he whispered, "there is something terribly wrong with me."

"What is it?" she asked fearfully. "Are you sick? Are you dying?"

He shook his head. "No. At least not mortally."

"Then… what is the matter?"

"Dreams," murmured Velkan. "All my life, from as far back as I can remember, I have dreamt of a dark saint and his three angels. They watch over me, and guide me through forests and across mountains to their palace of ice, where they live with a hundred thousand sleeping angels that are frozen and cannot wake. The saint calls me his son, and tells me that he has brought me there to wake the sleeping angels. But I don't know how to do it, as I tell him again and again. This dream, Anna, it makes me feel so sad."

"It doesn't sound so bad, Velkan," said his sister, squeezing his hand. "You are dreaming of holy beings, and that is a good thing, isn't it?"

"These beings are not holy, Anna," he said lowly. "They may appear that way on the surface, but they don't shine in the way that God does. I can feel something different about them, coldness where there should be warmth, darkness where there should be light. They whisper things to me that cannot be true, tell me to do what I know in some part of my heart is wrong. But I find myself believing them, and finding happiness in what I am told to do, no matter how disturbing it is." He shook his head regretfully. "My dreams are all wrong, and I walk through each day haunted by them. The only time I feel at peace anymore is when I am dreaming of the dark saint; I know his home better than my own, and I feel more welcome within its crystal walls than here in my own bed."

"O Velkan," Anna whispered, cuddling to her brother's side protectively. "I won't let anything bad happen to you, I promise. The priest will make everything better tomorrow, you'll see."

"I think it is already too late for me, little sister," he said lifelessly. "Something inside of me is starting to die; I know it is my soul."

"Don't say such horrible things, Velkan," Anna chided, though her voice trembled with fear at her brother's words. "Tomorrow when you go to confession, the priest will hear your troubles and ask God to help you, and then you will be well again, Velkan. You won't feel sad anymore, ever."

"Of course I won't," the prince said softly, putting his arm around his sister and holding her close, more grateful for her presence that he could ever remember.

But despite even this intimate reassurance, a quiet voice in his head told him that no one—not even Almighty God—was capable of helping him any longer.

† † †

Velkan attended his first penance the following morning, which dawned rainy and dreary and made the world seem as if it were mourning a sad event. The prince had awoken ill to his stomach, though he told no one of how he felt, not even Anna. The silver crucifix his father had given him for his seventh birthday seemed heavier than usual, but he wore it nevertheless, ignoring his own physical discomfort in light of his mounting anxiety about receiving his sacraments.

The walk to the church with his family seemed to last for ages, and with each step the nausea roiling in Velkan's stomach steadily worsened, though he knew not why. The cathedral was dark, ominous, sitting by the river like a crouching predator with its sharp, unfriendly steeples. These negative thoughts had never presented themselves in Velkan's mind so vividly, and the boy could not help but to feel as if something truly awful was going to befall him this day.

Confession was brief, and Velkan spoke nothing of his dreams or his senses of being doomed beyond salvation, already knowing that there was nothing the cleric could do to absolve him of these spiritual defects. And when he at last kneeled on the altar before the priest to receive the Eucharist, he gagged on the unleavened bread and retched it out. His family, sitting in the pews behind him, stood up in alarm and demanded to know what was wrong, but Velkan's throat had shut itself and he could not answer. He spat out the wine onto the priest's vestments and began to choke, as if he had instead been given a bitter poison. His own suspicions had confirmed themselves in that moment, and Velkan knew then that he was beyond all hope.

"I'm sorry," he said in a gravelly voice as the tears coursed their way down his cheeks. "I do not belong here. I never have."

With those words upon his lips, he turned and fled from the cathedral, through the doors and into the rainy forest. He ignored the calls of his family behind him and ran all the harder, leaping over dead trees and underbrush as nimbly as a young wolf, barrelling ever onwards with his heart slamming the blood through his veins. He wanted to run away and become lost, never to return. It would be better that way, he thought, to disappear without a trace. Mother and Father could have another son, one who is not flawed like he is, a better son, a happier son. They could easily replace him, forget that he was ever born, and Anna would delight in being a big sister.

Velkan's lungs could not sustain both his running and the sobs into which he then burst, and he fell to his knees on the wet ground and cried in the middle of the silent woods.

"O God," he wept, cradling his face in his hands, "if you are merciful you will kill me now and spare my family of the burden I will bring to them. I know I am not of your flock, Lord, and there is no place for my soul in Heaven. But I beg you, on behalf of my family, release me from this curse before it consumes me."

"Do not wish for death so quickly, Velkan," came an oddly familiar voice, and the prince sprang to his feet and turned to behold a man in a cloak the colour of night—the Dark Saint himself—gazing at him with a faint smile on his immortally elegant face.

"My lord," gasped Velkan reverently, averting his eyes and going down upon one knee respectfully.

"You need not genuflect, my son," spoke the saint, stepping forward to help Velkan to his feet once more. "You know me well enough to treat me as kin. Come, let me see your face. It has been ages since I last looked at you." The man smiled as he wiped the tears from Velkan's cheeks and swept his rain-soaked hair from his eyes. "There you are. I knew there was a prince beneath it all. My, how handsome you've grown."

The boy felt at once joy and terror, but knew not which to express. He pulled away slowly and stared into the saint's shadowy eyes. "This can't be," he said uneasily, taking a step back. "You… I know you. I have seen you before, and not only in my dreams."

"You have a good eye for recognition," said the man as he moved closer. "I was the musician who healed your wounded knee when you fell in the forest, and the drunkard who fought the men who meant to abduct you and hold you for ransom. I was the wolf who killed the innkeeper's afflicted dog when it sprang at your throat last summer, and the owl who sang you to sleep as a child. I have been with you, Velkan, from the day you were first born to this moment now, and you have not left my thoughts for thirteen years. Always I think of you."

Velkan was overwhelmed by this revelation—to discover that his saint was in fact as corporeal as he himself was—but there were questions that still burned within him, demanding to be answered.

"You know me well, my lord," he said gently, "but I know nothing of you, not even your name. Who are you?"

The man smiled hollowly. "You may call me Father."

"F-Father?" Velkan stumbled as his head swam from the unexpected affirmation, and a half-horrified look crossed his face. "How can that be? I already have a father!"

"True," said the saint with a nod, clasping his gloved hands behind his back and beginning to walk a semicircle about Velkan, "you have a father. But he is not _your_ father."

"Then who is the man who raised me?"

"Nobody," was the cold reply. "He may have raised you, but I am the reason you live this day. You would have been dead long ago if not for me."

"So that makes you my father?" Velkan demanded. "What of my mother, then? Do I not know who she is, either?"

"You have already met your mother," the man laughed. "All three of them. Do you not recall flying with them?"

Images of the angels and the storm at the windmill went rushing through Velkan's mind for the first time in years, as if from a long-forgotten dream, and he sputtered nonsensically in an attempt to find his words, his brain and his heart and his soul fighting each other for dominance of his senses. The saint looked upon him sadly and opened his arms, inviting the prince into his embrace; Velkan readily threw himself into the folds of his father's cloak and wept out of sheer confusion.

"There, there, my little Velkan," said the man as he petted the boy's damp locks soothingly. "I can help to ease your pain—starting with this wretched thing." He reached to Velkan's throat and grasped the chain of his crucifix, ripping it from his neck quickly enough for it to be absolutely painless.

Velkan gasped when he felt the heaviness lift from his soul, and when he discovered that his cross had been removed he made no move to retrieve it, but fell into a gloomy state of resignation once more. "What am I?" he asked his father. "What have you made me?"

"You are something unique, Velkan," said the dark saint, gazing at the swinging crucifix in his gloved hand with an expression of utter loathing. "You belong neither to God nor Satan, neither Heaven nor Hell. You are free from everything save death, but in good time death too shall cease to bind you."

"If that is true, then to whom _do_ I belong?"

"Me, Velkan." The ebony cloak wrapped itself about the prince, hugging him close like the folding wings of a dragon. "You belong to me."

At this point in the black void of Velkan's life, he surrendered himself to the one he knew could answer his questions, unlike the man he once called Father, who was either incapable or unwilling—determined, seemingly—to keep his son ignorant forever. But the man who held him now, his saint and his sire, possessed the knowledge to answer these questions, as he possessed the ability to release Velkan from the world that seemed to reject him. Here was power, here was knowledge, here was his salvation and freedom from all the chains that held him captive on God's Earth.

"I will go beside you, Father," the prince vowed in a delicate whisper. "And I will find a way to wake the sleeping angels for you, no matter what I must do. I will wake them."

Vladislaus Dracula smiled at his son, filled with inexpressible delight to see his years of hard work and devotion to this mortal child come full circle through only the power of suggestion alone. The boy was truly his own, his heir and his opus, and no force existed that could undo what had been sealed in blood thirteen years ago.

A sudden, high-pitched whistle sliced through the air, and there came a hollow _thump_ as three arrows lodged into the Count's chest, mere inches from Velkan's head. The boy looked up and let out a horrified scream as his saint released him and staggered backwards, clutching the arrows that had pierced his heart.

"_Run,_ _Velkan! Get away from him!_" came the cry, and the prince turned to see Boris plunging through the underbrush with his crossbow in hand; five of his armed hunters were rushing towards them in attack formation.

"What have you done!" Velkan shouted hysterically, running to the wounded man who, surprisingly, was still on his feet and looking more breathless and annoyed than riddled with pain. Velkan wrapped his arms about his saint's waist and held on to him protectively.

Boris, already blanched in the face from shock, ordered his men to halt. He stared at his son, his precious little boy, in the clutches of his worst enemy, and desperate tears burned in his eyes. "Come away, Velkan," he begged softly. "Come back to Papa."

The boy looked utterly betrayed and confused—he gulped, shook his head, and clung tightly to his saint, who wrenched the arrows from his chest with slow deliberation and tossed them aside.

"Well, well," Vlad muttered gruffly as his wounds began to heal. "Boris Valerious. How nice it is to see you again. It has been quite some time, thirteen years, if I am not mistaken." He smiled smugly. "You have aged. Humans have such talent for growing old."

"What have you done to him?" the gypsy king snarled, directing his attention to his foe.

The Count said, "Nothing to which he objected."

"Velkan, love, I know you can hear me," Boris spoke to his son with desperation in his tone. "You must resist the words he is putting into your mind. They are lies that only-"

"You are such a simpleton, Boris," Dracula snapped, and rested his hand on Velkan's shoulder possessively. "He is not under my control, nor has he ever been. He is by my side of his own will, and that is where he shall stay."

"You wretched monster!" Boris shouted. "What evil do you hope to accomplish with a young boy? Release him! He is of no use to you!"

"O, but he _is_," the vampire insisted fervently. "You see, I desire a child of my own, a male, someone to rule beside me when my kingdom covers the earth. My wives have failed to grant me this single wish, so I have been forced to resort to alternative methods of acquiring an heir."

He looked down at Velkan affectionately and stroked the boy's cheek—the king's blood boiled as he was forced to watch this grotesqueness, helpless to stop it.

"Yes," murmured Vlad, "he shall be my heir, my son, from now on." He raised his head to glare at Boris. "When he was born, I visited him that night and took him into my arms as a father; I poured my blood upon his head to save his soul from being given to God without his consent, and he now carries the seal of Dragulia upon his ghost. I have allowed him to choose his own path –by way of light or darkness– and he has chosen to follow me. Every moment he has lived, every breath he has taken, every decision he has made, has been of his own desire. He is _mine_, Valerious, and you shall die before taking him from me."

The gypsy king was mute with horror as incredulous tears trickled from his eyes. "You are a liar, Count," he stated obstinately, unwilling to lay bare his heart's sorrow before his opponent. "Velkan was never yours, and if I must die to free him, then so be it." And he drew his gleaming sword from its scabbard.

Dracula only grinned at the prospect of this foolish mortal's challenge, and Velkan tightened his arms about his saint. "Don't harm him," he implored his human father. "He is my saint, and I love him. I belong with him now—I am already too far beyond redemption. Please, Papa. Just leave him be. He will look after me and-"

"Enough, Velkan!" shouted Boris, though his severity was directed at Dracula. "You were never told who this creature truly is, so I will tell you now: he is Count Vladislaus Dracula, the spawn of the Devil, a destroyer of all that is good and true, a liar and a deceiver. Our family has been fighting his evil for the past four centuries, and it was he who murdered your grandfather, your great-grandfather, and countless other Valeriouses. It is the mission of our family to see that he is eliminated, for if he is allowed to exist, he will cast the world into an eternal darkness, and we have sworn an oath to God to prevent this from happening. Dracula has planted a seed of evil in you, Velkan, but so long as the light of Heaven shines on this earth, there is hope for you. There is _hope_, Velkan, my boy. Do not throw yourself into Hell with this monster!"

Dracula glowered darkly at the king. "You talk too much," he muttered, pulling free the pin in his hair. "If you insist on saying anything further, I would much prefer you to scream it." And he flung the pin at the man's face, where it embedded itself into his right eye with a sickening sound.

Boris howled in pain and reeled backwards; his five guards sprang towards Dracula at the same moment, but with a half-turn the Count sent them flying into the trees without laying so much as a finger on them. "Come, Velkan!" he called, but when he looked down at his side, the prince was not there.

"Papa!" Velkan cried as he skidded to his knees beside his fallen father. "Papa, don't move. You will be all right, Papa." He then lifted his grief-stricken gaze towards his saint. "Why did you hurt him!" he cried. "There was no need for violence!"

"He is a fool, Velkan," said Vlad warningly. "Mortals are weak both in body and mind, do not forget. Killing them ought to be considered a mercy."

"You forget that _I_ am still mortal!" the prince snarled, his tears replaced by anger. "Do you think the same of me? A fool who is better off dead?"

"Never, my son—you are singular from all humans, a god amongst the whole blundering race. Come with me now and I will tell you more of-"

"I don't need to hear another word," Velkan said dangerously, taking up his father's gilded sword and standing before the Count, poised to fight. "You would injure a man needlessly, and there is no honour in destroying those weaker than yourself simply to prove your strength. I am not so heartless as you, Dracula, nor will I ever be. Now go, and leave my family alone!"

Vlad was stunned for a moment, and then his amazement degenerated into perfect rage. "Why, you ungrateful little brat," he hissed, eyes darkening with deadly shadows. "After all that I have done for you, you would betray me for a worthless, ignorant wretch-!"

"He is my father," Velkan stated proudly, and pointed the tip of his sword at Dracula, "and I do not want to see you ever again."

"I am afraid that cannot be helped," the Count muttered as he approached the boy. "You see, I have invested too much in you, my little prince. I would not throw away those years of toil simply because you decided to hate me today. You will come to your senses again, and when you do, you will pay dearly to receive my good graces once more."

"You have no grace, sir," Velkan said, and, with the swiftness of a striking cobra, darted forward and lashed out with his father's sword. Truly he was exceptional; the blade narrowly missed Dracula's depthless eye, instead opening a red sliver on his cheek. The vampire seethed in his fury and reached out to snatch the insubordinate youngster by his collar.

"You would dare to strike me, you little bastard?" he growled, knocking the sword from Velkan's hand. "You belong to me, you serve me, and you will _obey me_."

"I would rather die!" the prince cried, and he wrenched free his silver crucifix—still grasped tightly in Dracula's fist—and thrust its long end into the vampire's chest. The effect was instantaneous.

The Count let out an unearthly screech as the holy metal pierced his infernal flesh, and he threw himself backwards, away from the boy, and pulled the bloody talisman from his body. The cross burst into flames and liquefied in his hand, and he glared at Velkan so venomously that for the first time in his young life, the prince knew what true terror felt like.

Dracula's shape began to shift, fangs sprouting from his mouth and talons from his fingers, his skin growing dark and leathery like a dragon's as he revealed his true form to Velkan, who screamed in horror and scrambled towards his father. The hellish monstrosity spread his wings and lifted into the air to pursue his quarry, but a volley of arrows sang through the misty forest air and planted themselves into his beastly body. Velkan turned to see the other members of the king's hunting party—twenty strong—reloading their crossbows and readying their pistols, shouting to each other as they formed their offence.

It was then that Velkan understood the meaning behind his years of training: he was to fight this hideous creature, as had every generation before him. This was his purpose, this was his destiny. This was what Papa did not want to tell him, the reason why he would not answer his questions. Velkan realised the truth now, that he had been deceived by his saint, this _Dracula_, for so long, and he wept in shame.

The vampire bellowed in rage as both arrows and bullets tore through his body. The forest was filled with a deafening cacophony as the huntsmen emptied their quivers and barrels into the loathsome fiend, who gave a final anguished roar before tearing up into the canopy and soaring away from the assault.

The king's men ran to assist their fallen lord and his stricken son, and carried them back to the manor as swiftly as they could. Though the doctor did all that he could, he was unable to save Boris' eye; the gypsy monarch would wear a patch over his empty socket for the rest of his life. However, such gruesome disfigurement as this would be considered a mercy compared to the silent ridicule that Velkan Valerious would face in the coming years.

_To Be Continued..._


	6. Love & Contempt

**Father  
****Author:** H.J. Bender  
**Pairing:** --  
**Rating:** T  
**Summary:** Velkan, now captain of the royal huntsmen, attempts to cope with being an outcast while Dracula struggles to come to terms with both his hatred and his love.  
**Disclaimer:** Main characters, events, original storyline, etc belong to Universal Studios 2004.  
**A/N:** I have taken a few liberties with ages and dates, though minimally. Enjoy.

_I am the corner of all rooms  
__I am the shadows of all trees…  
__I am the nightmare of all fathers.  
__-_Rammstein, _Mann gegen Mann_

**VI. Love & Contempt**

The gypsy prince was now eighteen years old, and though he had renounced the evil of his fallen saint more than half a decade ago, some still referred to him as the Son of Dracula in hushed whispers.

The demeanor of the whole town had changed when they first learned of Velkan Valerious' narrow escape from the Count's seduction, despite whatever attempts his family made to cover up the matter. No longer did the villagers smile at him as he passed, but treated him as a diseased leper who could at any time take their lives according to his whim. They ushered their children away and shut their doors if they saw him approaching, though still they saluted him for fear of being bewitched by the powers he never possessed. It hurt Velkan considerably to be thought of as a monster, yet he knew that this was his punishment for allowing himself to be so easily drawn into Dracula's tangled web of deceit. He accepted the harshness of his fellow citizens with his head held high, and resigned himself to being an outcast for the rest of his life with grace and dignity uncommon even for nobility.

The vampires returned to Vaseria and regularly took lives—men, women and children alike. Many blamed Velkan for this unfortunate turn of events, though few realised how valiant his fight had become against the demon he once dared to call his father. His mission had become more clearly defined as he grew into the man the Boris had hoped him to be: strong, skilled, clever, and driven by his desire to rout the wickedness that had cursed him for ever.

But while he had chosen to devote his life to goodness, the bloodstain that Dracula had placed on his soul at birth could not be washed clean, and Velkan would bear it until his death.

The prince had not set foot in church ever since his failed communion, knowing that his place was not worshipping in God's house, but battling on God's Earth. He no longer prayed, nor did he ever wear a cross about his neck again. "I do not need it," he told his family gravely. "Vengeance is a terrible thing, and I'll not sully God's hands with my hatred for Dracula. It is my burden alone to bear."

His relationship with his parents had changed since that day he and his father had been brought back to Valerious Manor after their ordeal with the vampire lord. His mother no longer coddled him, but treated him as a mature adult and rarely objected to his words. One could easily assume that she feared him, and seldom was it that she did not cry herself to sleep at night. Boris spoke less than was his custom, and he went out with his hunting party less frequently, the loss of his eye affecting his perception in such a way that his aim was considerably off. Though he tried his best to compensate for his handicap, it was difficult to re-learn how to shoot arrows and parry a sword. For this reason, Velkan had taken over as captain of the royal huntsmen with Anna acting as his lieutenant. While there was great honour in this commendation, the sombre circumstances of the occasion stifled any cause to rejoice.

A mournful silence descended upon the Valerious household, replacing the laughter and music and revelry of a happy life that had now passed. Duty took precedence above all other things, including emotional welfare. The only moments of light-heartedness that shone through the curtain of gloom were terribly brief—cruel reminders of times that had once been better. However, this made them all the more priceless, for no one knew when peace would visit them again.

Only Anna was left unchanged by her brother's new life, and devoted herself to aiding him in his cause. No amount of refusal could convince her to allow Velkan to deal with this task by himself, and she defended him from the hypocrisy of the townspeople with anger and frustration.

Anna knew that her brother was suffering, no matter how unaffected he made himself appear, and she prayed for his soul every morning and night. She remained his only friend and companion, the only one who neither feared nor pitied him. She supported Velkan when he stumbled through the darkness of his days, and kept him optimistic with hopes and promises of a future bereft of Dracula. Anna became her brother's very foundation, the strength from which he drew the courage to move forward without being troubled by his past.

The two became bound by more than mere relation and kinship, but by a code of warriors, such as that formed between soldiers who lay entrenched on the battlefront and developed an unbreakable bond of camaraderie and loyalty to one another. They called themselves the Knights of Valerious, and anyone that stood against them was in for a reckoning they would soon not forget.

Though Anna and Velkan were young and strong, their battle against evil had grown complicated, for now they fought both vampires _and_ werewolves, and never knew when to expect the next ambush; sometimes it came in the middle of the night, or during days when the sun did not shine. The creatures Velkan once called his angels were now devils, and they ravaged the village in retribution for the prince's betrayal.

"We loved you!" they hissed through their fangs whenever Velkan arrived to disband them. "And you broke our master's heart!"

"Your master has no heart!" he would reply, and then drive them away with Anna's help. The brides made many attempts to harm the princess, but never her brother—their master had ordered them so. Often these encounters cast Velkan into a dismal mood, ever-reminded of being treasured by the same evil that he loathed. His defectiveness as one of God's creatures had devastating effects on his personality, which never grew happier, no matter the valiance of Anna's attempts to rescue him.

And then there came that awful day, just a few weeks before the prince's nineteenth birthday, when his mother Isabel went missing from their home one night. Every able man in Vaseria was sent out to comb the land with the king and his hunting party, and after two nights of tireless searching, they discovered the body of their beloved queen in the middle of the misty forest. She was lying peacefully on her back, eyes closed as if she had simply gone to sleep, with a red rose upon her breast and puncture wounds on her throat. She was pale and colourless but still beautiful, even in death.

Velkan had to be restrained, so profound was his grief. He shouted and screamed and wept against Anna's shoulder while their father kneeled down to cover his wife's corpse in a dark shroud. Velkan knew that this had been done on purpose, that Dracula had taken his mother from him as retaliation, and it filled him with both fury and unimaginable guilt to know that this had happened by no one's fault but his own.

He could not look Boris in the eye as he walked past with Isabel in his arms, nor could he summon words to speak in her honour at the following funeral. He lingered outside the church, dressed in clothes as black as his mood, and swore that Dracula would suffer greatly for what he had done.

Afterwards, Velkan tried to ignore the ache in his heart at losing his mother and focused upon his duties as both a prince and a warrior. Anna did similarly, and was able to cope with the loss more easily in that she did not carry the burden of another's death upon her shoulders. Still, she did her best to offer solace to her brother, though sometimes she was forced to resign her efforts lest she exhaust herself.

Velkan was ever depressed and moody, yet he drew comfort from the thought that one day he would face off with his Dark Saint and defeat him. This hope lent him the will and energy to fight, to endure, and soon that was all he remembered how to do. He forgot how to smile and to laugh, how to love and how to be merciful. Hatred and vengeance both ruled his life and destroyed it, and each day he would be forced to rise from the ashes like a phoenix to take flight once more, whether he wanted to or not. It was a wretched existence, and he loathed it with every fibre of his being.

"What magnificent lives we lead, you and I," he said to Anna one night after they had surprised a werewolf while on patrol and were forced to slaughter it with their silver daggers. He wiped the beast's hot blood from his eyes and watched it slowly turn into the man it once had been. "I pity the tedious things other people of our ages must go through: courtships, marriages, worrying about the weather. How dull their lives must be. How utterly unbearable…"

Anna had to catch Velkan as he fell to his knees on the bloody grass and sobbed. She said nothing, as she usually did, but held him until he had purged the anguish from his body in the form of bitter tears. Then she helped him home again, and slept by his side the same as they used to do when they were once young and happy.

† † †

Matters were similarly unwell in the dark, snowy realm of Dracula's abode. Though the brides did what they could to comfort their master, he remained despondent and quick to anger. Hours he would pass sitting alone at the long marble table in his hall, wearing a baneful expression, staring across the way as if his eyes were looking at something within his own mind. Occasionally his temper ignited for no reason at all, and he went through his palace prison destroying everything within reach, shouting curses to God, the world, the Valerious family, and creating an awful row until his rage had at last been sated.

Verona, Marishka and Aleera feared the Count's wrath and allowed him room to vent his frustration, accepting for once that even they were unable to ease his ire. They knew that their master was deeply wounded by their son's treachery, and sought to punish the mortals who were undoubtedly the cause of him deviating from his chosen path. Dracula condoned and even encouraged these attacks, but warned his women against harming so much as a hair on Velkan's head.

"He may hate us now," he muttered coldly, "but soon he will love us again. We shall show him the weakness of his kind, even if we must kill every human being in Vaseria. And once we have destroyed his entire family, solitude will deliver him into our arms. Go, my lovelies. Teach him the meaning of loneliness—I want him to feel the same pain which he has given me."

The brides obeyed as best they could, but in secret they harboured jealousy towards the prince for stealing Dracula's affection from them. It was cause for ever-increasing anxiety, and prompted them to question the security of their own futures if the Count could not have his son.

"Vlad cared for us less when we were human," Marishka once mewed pathetically. "But now he cares for Velkan with greater ardour, and he is still a mere mortal!"

"Shut up," Aleera hissed to her. "We do not need you to remind us of our master's disinterest in us—we can see it clearly enough."

"He has not lain with us since the Argument," Verona added mournfully. "Perhaps he has given up on our children, and consequently us as well. What use are we to him now, when we cannot even bear him the children he desires? We are but his toys, useless for all things save his own pleasure, and he may already have tired of us."

"The gypsy brat is not one of his brides!" Aleera snapped ferociously. "He cannot please our master as we can!"

"How little you know of the world," Marishka muttered.

"I know of the world well enough to understand that I am not going to allow a _Valerious_ to replace my position in my lord's heart—or his bed."

"That is not for you to decide, Aleera," said Verona. "The duty of a wife is firstly to obey her husband, and if he tells you to stand down, you _will_ do it."

Indignant tears burned in the red-haired woman's eyes as she retired her argument with grievous acknowledgement. "I would throw myself on God's mercy before I see that day."

The vampiresses remained tortured by their own uncertainties but they did not leave the Count, for with him was their sole purpose, their reason for being. They had been selected as mortals by their strength, their beauty, and their cunning; they had been made by Dracula and would stay at his side until he sent them away, yet all three would rather die ere leave him, so great was their devotion. But as ageless and eternally beautiful as they were, without their husband they had nothing else to live for, and this they knew all too well.

† † †

Whenever the moon lapsed into its middle phase, the people of Vaseria lived in fear. The summer months were particularly dreaded, being that the foliage offered camouflage for the flourishing population of werewolves, as if the danger from vampires was not already enough for the town to bear. The Valerious family, however, looked upon the full moon as an opportunity to wreak vengeance upon the evil that had wronged them in so many ways.

Anna found her brother seated in the armoury one such evening, cleaning his revolver and inspecting his sterling ammunition with wordless tact. She approached slowly and watched Velkan work. No speech passed between them, but it was seldom that they had anything light of which to speak anyway.

"Tomorrow is my birthday," she said at length.

"I know." Velkan looked up from his gun to give her a meek smile. "Eighteen years is it, little sister? I suppose I ought to stop calling you 'little' now that you are going to be a woman."

"I will always be 'little sister' to you," she answered, walking over behind him to hug her arms about his neck, "just as you will always be my 'big brother'."

"And what does the princess wish for her birthday, I wonder? I don't think she should ask for an iron mace like last year."

Anna smiled. "No weapons this time, I promise. I have only one wish."

"Really?" Velkan inquired. "And what might that be?"

"To spend a day with my father and my brother, and speak nothing of duty or evil. I want us to be a family again, to enjoy life the way we should. It is what Mama would have wanted: to see us happy if only for one more time. It is what I want, too."

Velkan sighed heavily and reached up to place his hand upon Anna's. "It is folly for us to make ourselves believe that there is nothing wrong, little sister. To pretend is to dream, and while dreams may be sweet, it makes waking all the more difficult."

"Perhaps," she said, "but sometimes dreams are all we have to keep ourselves alive. We need a little folly to remind us of our better days."

The prince set down his revolver and turned halfway in his chair to kiss his sister's cheek. "I love you, Anna. No folly should keep you from forgetting that."

Tears came to the princess' eyes as she embraced her brother tightly. "Never," she swore. "I thank God for each day I spend with you, Velkan. If I had to give up all of my dreams and possessions, I would still be grateful to have you. On my life, I would."

Velkan swallowed the knot in his throat and closed his eyes, lost in the dark cascade of his sister's wavy hair as she bowed her head over him. "So would I, Anna," he whispered. "On my life."

† † †

The night was far from dark as the hunting party assembled in the deserted town square. Torches and lamps were unnecessary under the illuminating brightness of the full moon, and the huntsmen wore grim faces as they reigned their horses around their captain. Velkan looked mature and kingly for his twenty years, clad in his black riding cloak and carrying on his belt his father's sword and revolver. Anna and Boris flanked either side of him, and from atop his black steed he addressed the party in a strong, regal voice:

"Gentlemen, you are already aware of what we are up against: the two werewolves from the north woods were spotted on the move, heading south-east along the river towards Vaseria. Flavius, you and my father are to take six men and set up a patrol along the banks north of the bridge; allow two of your scouts to keep watch on the west bank, should the beasts see you and attempt to evade.

"Adolfo, your team shall accompany Anna and I to the east woods—with luck the rogue werewolf who killed Tristan last week will be returning to finish the job; its leg was wounded so it cannot have travelled far, and its lust for blood would keep it close to town. Cezar, I know that Tristan was your brother, so look upon this night as an opportunity to exact justice upon the evil that took his life."

The man nodded firmly and said, "I plan on it, your highness."

Velkan returned the gesture, and looked at each of the hunters with pride and determination on his face. "I carry no doubt in my mind of your extraordinary abilities—you are the best of the best, some of the finest hunters and trappers in Transylvania, and it is my honour to serve as your captain and comrade. Let us pray that fortune will smile upon us this night and in the coming years. God be with you."

With a sharp whistle, the group split accordingly and set out into the darkness. Anna drew her horse alongside Velkan's as they rode towards the foreboding forest, which loomed ahead with silent menace and almost seemed to smile as they entered the winding trail that led into its belly. She stole glances at her brother, who remained fearless and unaffected by his surroundings. Either he was the bravest man she had ever known, or he had become so accustomed to evil that it had made a home in his heart. Or perhaps it had been there all along. The thought made Anna sick with despair, but she forced herself to smile, intent on remaining strong.

"You command the men well, Velkan," she said. "They obey and respect you."

"They obey and respect me because they fear me," he answered quietly so that the others riding behind would not hear. "To them I am a thing that is half evil, the rebellious son of Dracula whose ambition is driven by vengeance instead of goodness. I have neither their trust nor their confidence; I lost it years ago."

"That is not true," Anna insisted stubbornly. "How can you claim to know what these men think of you?"

At this, Velkan turned his head to gaze at his sister with pain apparent in his blue eyes. "Because I can hear the panic in their heartbeats whenever I approach, as I can hear the echoes of their thoughts and see the terror in their eyes as they battle the wickedness that despises them, yet loves me." He turned to gaze emotionlessly at the black path spreading before them, a scene that would have shaken a normal man to his bones. "He still runs through my veins, Anna, and he will not leave me until I am his once more."

The princess was at once angry and grieved, and she uttered, "Then you must kill him, Velkan. Be rid of him, and his hold on you will die as well."

"I am not sure if I could do it," he said softly.

"What do you mean?" Anna demanded. "Dracula has taken all but your life, and now you tell me that you no longer have the desire to kill him? You cannot fail in this!"

"It is not my desire for justice that makes me hesitate, but the thought of succeeding." Velkan clarified hastily. "Suppose I _do_ manage to defeat Dracula—what then of my life? How would I begin to take back the years that seeking revenge has stolen from me? I was born for only one purpose, as were you: to kill Count Vladislaus Dragulia. We are living weapons bred for no reason other than to hate and to fight and to die, and it is all that I have been taught. If the Count is destroyed and peace is restored to Vaseria, my purpose would be gone and I would have nothing for which to live. My existence is meaningless if he dies—he _is_ my reason to be, Anna." He shook his head, on the verge of tears. "The object of my hatred is also the crucible of all that I love in this life. It is a cruel and merciless irony. That is why I cannot kill him, Anna. I would be taking my own life."

"That is not true, and you know it!" she objected vehemently. "Don't speak as if all is-"

"On the contrary," interrupted a sepulchral voice from far above their heads, "he is absolutely correct. You should listen to your brother more often, silly little princess; you would benefit from his knowledge."

"Dracula," Velkan growled softly, staring up at some unseen point in the tangled mesh of tree limbs and darkness. He drew his sword and held it ready, and though the huntsmen similarly sprang to arms, they could not see through the night—but Velkan could; he saw the Count standing casually upon a thin limb high in a tree, having witnessed the entire conversation from his lofty position.

"You speak truthfully, my son," he said with a smile, "and it warms my cold heart to hear such eloquent words from you."

"You are not my father anymore," Velkan spat.

"But I was, once upon a time," said Vlad with triumphant smugness. "And so I will be again."

"My prince, we cannot see him!" the men called. "It is too dark! His voice comes from all directions!"

"Weaklings," the vampire muttered in contempt, staring at the young man venomously. "You would call such pathetic creatures your family, and shun the eternal treasures I offer to you. What do you see in them, Velkan? Does your pity keep you from deserting them, I wonder? Or are you just as senseless as they?"

Anna had heard enough, and drew a crucifix-studded dagger from her belt. "If you cannot kill him, Velkan," she shouted to her brother, "then I will!" And with expert aim, she flung the blade towards the spot Velkan's eyes were fixed upon. Though the princess could not see the target hit its mark in Dracula's shoulder, she heard his snarl of pain well enough.

Fearful for her life, Velkan cried to his sister, "Anna, what have you done!"

"_Kill her!_" Dracula thundered, and from the trees burst a frothing, yellow-eyed werewolf, jaws opened wide and rows of dripping fangs bared. The creature struck Anna's horse and sent it rolling across the ground. The princess was barely quick enough to avoid being thrown from her saddle, and landed nimbly on her feet several paces away as the werewolf began to tear her steed to pieces; its screams were horrible, and the huntsmen opened fire upon the beast with arrows, bullets, and daggers.

"Anna!" shouted her brother, and she turned to see Velkan extending his hand towards her. "Get on, hurry!"

Anna started to reach for his hand, but a shadow swooping down from the trees behind him caused her to shriek, "Velkan, look out!" She lunged forward to grab his hand, but she was already too late; she could only watch in horror as Velkan was lifted, shouting and struggling, from his saddle and into the trees by the grotesque winged monster that was Dracula.

"Velkan! Velkan!" she screamed, horrified beyond rational thought to see her own brother taken from her. Chaos engulfed Anna for a single moment, and between the roaring of the werewolf as he lay into the huntsmen and the din of gunfire, she lost the ability to think of anything else save the agony of telling her father what had happened.

Just there came the sound of snapping branches from above, and Velkan's revolver landed on the ground not far from where she stood. Anna's mind was slammed into action once more, and she sprang for the gun.

"Velkan, thank God for you," she uttered, snapping open the cylinder to see six silver bullets already loaded into the chambers. Closing it once more and cocking the hammer, she turned around and threw herself straight into the werewolf's bloody rampage.

† † †

High above the shadowy treetops, Velkan kicked, yelled, and fought to free himself despite the prospect of falling—heights had ceased to frighten him years ago. The beating of two powerful, leathery wings churned the air and sent it rushing past him as the distant shouts of men and the patter of gunfire echoed across the forest. The talons that clutched the prince firmly by his upper arms were as strong as iron, yet the creature was mindful not to puncture the vulnerable flesh with its mighty claws.

Suddenly, Velkan stopped struggling as he heard distinct gunshots crack into the air from below: two, three, four. "Anna…" he whispered, recognising the familiar sound of his revolver. "Aim for the heart, Anna. You have only two more chances to-"

Another shot. And another.

She was now out of ammunition, and the only reload of silver bullets was carried on Velkan's belt.

Three seconds of silence followed, and the prince felt a cold block of ice begin to form in the pit of his stomach. Then a long, tortured howl drifted above the canopy, wavering unsteadily as it faded gradually into a human scream. And then, the forest was quiet once more.

"She did it! She killed it!" Velkan cried happily, forgetting himself and his present danger.

"Wretched brat," came the fiendish growl from above him. "She will die for robbing me of my servant."

"Only if you kill me first," the young gypsy said defiantly.

"For all the trouble you have caused me, I should," replied the creature. "But I cannot destroy you, my beautiful son, no more than you could destroy me."

Velkan had craftily slipped his silver dagger from the breast pocket of his vest and manoeuvred it into his hand. "Perhaps I can help you find a way, _Father_," he uttered, and thrust the blade into the monster's leg.

There was an ear-shattering bellow of rage and pain, and suddenly they were plummeting from the sky and into the trees. One talon released Velkan's arm, and the only thing keeping him from dropping to his death was the thrashing beast above him. They struggled in midair, descending at reckless speed towards the earth before finally crashing through the canopy. It was a roaring tangle of limbs and wings as Velkan fought to both protect and free himself from the creature's clutches, but soon the concern of surviving his fall overwhelmed his desire for liberation.

Branches thudded against his body and tore deep ruts into his skin, knocking the air from his lungs and bending his frame painfully hither and thither. His flesh seared as if on fire as he listened to his bones collide with tree trunks and crack at the joints, and he tasted blood in his mouth while being battered about the head by whatever foliage he ripped through.

It was the most painful fifteen seconds of Velkan's life, yet it seemed to go on for ages.

And then, thankfully, the branches ceased to tear at him and he fell freely through open space, welcoming the peace and silence. He knew in some black, barely-conscious part of his mind that he was about to die, yet he felt no fear at all, for after enduring such grueling physical assault, dying was a merciful notion.

But Velkan did not die—he collided with the ground and lived, and seconds later the hellish creature landed beside him, growling softly. The prince saw through the darkness and beheld the beast's wings, torn and bleeding and riddled with sharp branches; Dracula had obviously received the brunt of the damage, though before Velkan's astonished eyes the wounds began to close up and heal as the Count slowly returned to his human shape.

Vlad crawled to his hands and knees and grimaced, still feeling the horrible pain even though his wings had vanished. No matter—it would be gone in a few more moments, as would the punctures and lacerations that had nearly shredded him to ribbons. He wiped away the blood coursing down the side of his face and swept back his dishevelled hair before finally laying his eyes upon the wounded prince, who was cast upon his back not far from where the vampire had landed.

"You insufferable little whelp," he hissed, crawling forward to grab Velkan by the collar and lift him up until they were face to face. "You have brought me nothing but trouble and strife! I should leave you here to die and allow the crows to pick at your rotting corpse!"

Velkan, lost in a hazy delirium and covered from head to toe in his own blood, smiled at Dracula as he would a dear relative. "But you won't… will you, Father?"

Vlad gritted his teeth in wrath, but knew that the impudent young man was right. He knotted his fists in the fabric of Velkan's shirt and trembled as he strove to control himself. "I should have killed you the moment I first saw you, Valerious. It was foolish of me to believe that a worthless human child could ever amount to anything, especially an ignorant, obstinate son of a gypsy harlot such as you. How I hate you, Velkan; as I hate God and Heaven and the whole of miserable humanity. _I hate you_!"

The next thing he knew, Velkan was being embraced in the Count's arms, held tightly to the breast that bore no heartbeat. He felt his body begin to repair itself: bones knitting, skin healing, tissue mending, and he was both grateful and disheartened. Now he would live again because of this demon, this Dark Saint, and be further indebted to him—further owned by him. He struggled weakly to get away, but found that he had no strength remaining; most of it had bled out of him.

"Let me go," he rasped. "I would rather die than..."

"I cannot let you," Vlad whispered. "Be still."

"Release me," the prince repeated, though this time it sounded more like a plea. "Don't do this to me again."

"I must. I cannot allow you to escape into Purgatory so easily."

Tears flooded Velkan's eyes. "You bastard," he choked, and gave in, reaching up to wrap his arms about the Count's shoulders. "You've ruined me. You were the one who taught me the meaning of hatred, and I will never forgive you."

"You have ruined me as well, little prince," said Vlad in an oddly detached murmur, "for you were the one who taught me the meaning of love, and I will never forgive you."

For a while they sat in the silent tomb of the forest, holding on to one another while at the same time overwhelmed with the desire to destroy each other. They had become a paradox, half living and half dead, hot blood and cold flesh, restrained only by their love of hating one another. This was the essence of a father's helpless devotion to his son, despite however different their worlds, despite how badly they wanted to forget: some part of a parent would always and unconditionally love their child, no matter how far it strayed from the shadow of its sire.

"I may have failed to kill you, Count," said Velkan as he slowly drew away and stared into Vlad's hollow eyes, "but my sister will not. She will hunt you until the end of her days and not rest until she has found a way to destroy you."

"The only thing in this world that frightens me is you… my most reluctant son." And Dracula leaned forward to kiss the forehead that he had poured his blood upon more than two decades ago; a few moments later he pulled away and returned to Velkan his silver dagger, still stained with cold blood. "Do not die before me," he admonished, petting the prince's hair affectionately.

"I swear it," Velkan answered defiantly, grasping the blade to his chest.

Vlad smiled and stood to his feet. "That is good—I have plans for you, Velkan, important plans. Take care to avoid wrecking them." And then, with a rush of wind, he had vanished into the night.

† † †

Anna was the first one to spot her brother as he emerged from the black trees, clothes tattered and bloodied but his body amazingly uninjured. "Velkan!" she cried, handing her torch to Adolfo and running to his side. "What happened to you? Are you all right? How did you ever manage to escape?"

"I stabbed Dracula and he released me," he replied laconically. "Fortunately the trees broke my fall."

"You look a terrible mess," she muttered, checking him for bruises and cuts. "Are you certain you are not wounded?"

"I am fine, Anna," he insisted. "It was just a rare stroke of luck that he lost his grip—it was nothing that I could not manage. Did you kill the werewolf?"

"Yes," she said softly. "But I am afraid that Cezar was mortally wounded. We sent four of the men back with him to the town doctor, but it is unlikely that he will survive the night. Even so, he has been bitten. He is as good as dead no matter what happens."

Velkan bowed his head and rubbed his face tiredly for a few moments before looking up at the remaining huntsmen. "Then we shall return to the town and see what can be done to help him. Our mission is complete for tonight, and it is time to begin a new one."

_To Be Continued..._


	7. The Good Doctor

**Father  
****Author:** H.J. Bender  
**Pairing:** --  
**Rating:** T  
**Summary:** Dr Victor Frankenstein arrives in Transylvania, unaware of his benefactor's evil intentions. Velkan, tired of continuously suffering, acknowledges himself as being Dracula's son and then discovers a mysterious door...  
**Disclaimer:** Main characters, events, original storyline, etc belong to Universal Studios 2004.  
**A/N:** I have taken a few liberties with ages and dates, though minimally. Enjoy.

_Without you, I cannot be.  
With you, I am also alone...  
The forest stands so black and empty,  
And the birds sing no more.  
__-_Rammstein, _Ohne Dich_

**VII. The Good Doctor**

_Journal of Victor Frankenstein, M.D. Ph.D.  
__24 March 1886_

_Arrived safely in the remote Transylvanian province of Vastrea. The nearest township appears to be Vaseria, roughly two kilometres away. It is a dismal and vacant-looking village, and its folk appear wary of strangers passing through. I resent the thought of returning, but the castle with which the generous Count has provided me must be supplied if I hope to have the machines in operation by this week._

_The 15th century structure is built upon a rugged section of rock at the foot of the mountains, making the high altitude convenient for performing electrical diagnostics. While the castle has sat empty for several decades (as has its village), it is quite intact and resistant to the elements, and that is all I could ask, considering the Count's excessive graciousness in funding my research and equipping my new labouratory. His faith in my work makes me anxious, and though he has not yet disclosed the reason for his interest in this field of science, I nevertheless hope to achieve his expectations, whatever they may be. He has proven to be a great benefactor and a loyal friend, and I look forward to working with him._

Victor Frankenstein put down his pen and gazed out at the steady downpour through the hazy, mildewed glass of the windows. It had been raining ever since he had first entered this cold northern region of Romania, at least four days in succession by his own reckoning. He could hear torrents gushing from the stone gargoyles on the ledge and was grateful to be indoors, regardless of the castle's draftiness. The man was loath to admit that he would be forced out into the rain to fetch some items from the nearby town, and at least hoped that no one would ask him questions. While being a doctor and well-read in Latin, he knew little of the Romanian language, and the dialects which the gypsies spoke in these parts were practically indiscernible.

Victor doubted there was any way he could hope to blend in with the villagers; thirty two years old, blond-haired and blue-eyed, the German man with his decidedly western-European attire and ruddy complexion stood out from the pallid, dark-haired citizens like a goose amongst ducks, and he was already quite aware of the superstitions that the natives harboured.

"Why are they so distrustful of a new face?" Victor had made so bold as to inquire of his new friend shortly after he had first arrived at the castle. "They seem almost terrified of people they have never seen before."

"That is the typical ignorance of these simple village folk," Dracula had said with a fleeting smile. "They still believe in witches and werewolves, and the nobility is no more learned than they are. The king incites this madness by professing his belief in such fairy-tale monsters, and has brought ruin to Vaseria because of it. Do not look to make friends with the locals here, Victor," the Count warned. "They will only fill your head with their childish fables."

The words echoed in the doctor's mind as he recalled Dracula's admonishment, and closed his journal as he stood from his desk. Uneducated as the townsfolk were or were not, the doctor would have to establish some form of trust with them if he expected to continue his research in this lonesome corner of the world.

† † †

The rain was relentless as Victor entered the town square on horseback, the road already reduced to a muddy mire. He saw no people walking about, though he assumed that anyone with an ounce of sense would be inclined to remain indoors on a dark, overcast day such as this—perhaps the villagers were not as ignorant as Dracula had said they were.

Victor hitched his horse at a rickety post outside of the general store and tried to look as unassuming as he could as he made his way into the decrepit wooden building. It was dryer and warmer inside, though not by much; a man sat in a chair behind the counter, smoking a pipe and whittling a piece of wood. He glanced up as Victor walked in and then went back to his carving. The store was dark and cluttered, tools and food items scattered about on shelves and crowding the counter. The doctor's eyes were drawn to the ceiling, where dozens of rows of garlic hung on display from the rafters. Crucifixes large and small adorned every available space, and though his Romanian was poor, he was able to translate a sign that read: _Melt Your Silver Here Buy, Sell & Trade_

Pushing these peculiarities to the back of his mind, Victor proceeded to hunt down the supplies on his list—such as heavy gauge rope and canvas tarp—and was a little disappointed at the lack of variety, but, given the circumstances, was nevertheless glad to find reasonable substitutes.

He was just about to ask the manager if he had any iron pins in stock when someone else walked into the store, shaking the rain from their black cloak. Victor was surprised when the hood was drawn back, revealing the handsome face of a young man, quite a number of years younger than the doctor was himself. He appeared to be of some import, given his aristocratic appearance and the stern tone in which he spoke to the store keeper; Victor would have guessed him to be part of the upper-class gypsy nobility, but the colourless garments he wore suggested that he had either just come from a funeral or was a villainous fiend. Victor doubted either, although the general disposition of the town could easily be misconstrued as one of mourning.

He found himself staring at the youth, subconsciously examining him with his keen scientific mind, when it suddenly dawned on him that he had seen no children in Vaseria at all, not even people remotely close to his own age—save for this fine specimen standing here now. The whole village seemed comprised of old, harrowed-looking individuals with their faces wrinkled from years of hardship and their hands twisted and calloused from toil. Perhaps children were not allowed out of doors at certain times, he thought, or perhaps were there none of which to speak…

"_You there. Stranger_."

Victor was startled from his reverie by none other than the young man himself, who stood gazing at him with the same intensity in his eyes that the doctor recalled seeing the first time he had met Count Vladislaus Dracula. There was something keenly secretive lurking in the depths of those pale blue irises, and it felt both captivating and unnerving to be caught in their path.

"_You speak Latin?_" Victor answered unsteadily.

"_I am not stupid, if that is what you are implying,_" Velkan Valerious answered coldly, dropping a heavy bag upon the counter.

The German gulped. "_I am very sorry. It is just that I am new to Vaseria and_-"

"_What business brings you to this place?_" the prince interrupted. "_You are obviously no huntsman or soldier. We do not take kindly to outsiders in our midst_."

"_I-I am a doctor of science, Dr Victor Frankenstein. I was formerly a medical student at Goldstadf here in Romania, _" he explained hastily, intimidated by the young man's frankness. "_I have come here to complete my research_."

"_What sort of research?_" Velkan asked, stepping closer.

"_Biological, particularly in the area of cell restoration and regeneration. Er, that means the re-growth of_-"

"_I know what it means, _sir_. Do not patronise me_."

Victor was soundly rebutted. "_My apologies... ah?_"

"_Velkan,_" said the gypsy, lifting his chin. "_Velkan Alexandru Valerious_."

"_My apologies, Master Valerious. I meant no disrespect. I have only just arrived and have yet to get acquainted with the people of this region_."

"_You will find that the people here are not the type to acquaint themselves with anyone, especially not foreign scientists. You would do well to keep to your own, doctor_."

The razorblade tension of their conversation ended there, and Victor was immensely relieved. While his first interaction with one of the locals was by no means a crowning success, it was no great failure, either. The Count had been incorrect in telling him that the villagers were a stupid lot of frightened sheep, and this unusually austere young gentleman with an admirable command of the Latin language was proof of it. Victor was intrigued by his noble character and hoped that they would cross paths again.

The doctor paid for his supplies and then made his way out into the rain once more. After his departure, Velkan was left to dwell at length on the reason why an obviously well-read western man would travel to a distant place such as Vaseria to complete his research. There were no universities or museums to which one of his extensive education could take advantage, nor was Transylvania ranked among the most affluent regions in which to study medical science.

It perplexed and disturbed Velkan; something about the doctor's presence did not feel right, and though he appeared to be a harmless enough fellow, there was a haunting way about which he had first looked at the prince, as if he had almost recognised him. It reminded Velkan all too clearly of the stares he received from the townsfolk, the ones who continued to hate, pity, and fear him; the ones who saw in him nothing but the image of his estranged father. _Son of Dracula, Offspring of the Beast,_ were their thoughts. Velkan knew for he heard their fear, smelt their loathing, witnessed their contempt, and it was thus that he felt with every bone in his body the powerful aura of the Count's control over this newcomer known as Frankenstein.

"Watch him closely, Mr Grasu," said Velkan to the store keeper as he turned to leave. "I fear that man's good intentions will be put to evil use."

† † †

Victor was surprised to find the Count waiting for him when he returned to the castle: the tall, darkly-clad man stood before the hearth in the large parlour with his violin on his shoulder, filling the cold, empty halls with the echoes of a tragically beautiful song. He seemed oblivious to any other presence, fingers slowly waltzing at the instrument's neck and body swaying with the motions of the bow as it sang across the strings.

Victor watched in silence for a while, not wishing to intrude on his guest during this intimate moment. Such sadness and longing was in the melody; it reminded the doctor of the eyes of the young man whom he had just met not an hour before, and he was instantly affected by the profoundness of the melancholy tune. It filled him with a vague sense of sympathy for the Count, who seemed to elicit the song's very substance from the depths of his own despondent soul.

Dracula, with his back still turned to the doctor, drew out the last note and then lowered his bow. "I used to play that piece for my son," he said solemnly, gazing into the fire. "I once knew many songs, but now I cannot remember any others save for his."

"I am sorry," Victor said gently. "Your son… did he pass away?"

"He is quite alive, unfortunately," sighed Vlad as he turned and set his violin against a wingback chair. "When they are young you expect them to follow in your footsteps and inherit the world you have given them. But then they grow, and you discover that the life you had planned for them is a life which they do not wish to live. However, the _true_ irony-" Here he smiled in such a way that he looked both grief-stricken and insane. "-is that you love them too much to force your world upon them, and you would sooner die than see them become an ugly reflection of yourself."

Victor said timidly, "I am afraid I do not understand you, my friend."

The Count laughed suddenly, his mood as mercurial as the shifting wind. "Hating to love and loving to hate," he declared, voice reverberating off of the stone walls. "This is one of life's most contemptible miseries. If not for death, there would be nothing left to fear. That is why I have brought you here, Victor—so that you may show the world that its days of terror are numbered, to find a cure for the disease known as death!"

Vlad stepped close and placed his hand upon the doctor's shoulder. "I believe in your work, Victor. I believe that the length of our lives should not be determined by our Creator, but by ourselves, by _we_ who are trapped in the fleshly prison of our own bodies. You, my good doctor, shall open the eyes of mankind when you succeed in this bold endeavour, and you will be remembered throughout history for the victory you have won on humanity's behalf."

"The victory of science over God," said the man softly, entranced by the powerful gaze of those hollow eyes and finding himself automatically believing the words, no matter how incredible they sounded.

"Yes," Vlad murmured, leaning uncomfortably close to Victor's neck. "You will show this truth to the world and a new age will arise: an age of enlightenment and knowledge, brought about by you alone, Victor. And there will be a special place for you in this kingdom, a throne upon which you will sit and be honoured by those who were given life by your gifted hands."

The Count paused with his lips hovering above the pulsing vein in the doctor's throat, and then slowly drew away. "Do not disappoint me."

† † †

"He is up to something, Anna," Velkan spoke to his sister as he stood in the study of Valerious Manor that evening, staring out at the rainy forest in the distance. "I can sense he has a plan, and I would not doubt that the arrival of the German stranger is his doing. Yet I simply cannot imagine the purpose a scientist could serve him."

"Perhaps he has grown tired of his typical Romanian fare and decided to sample a more western flavour," Anna replied with grim humour as she sat with her boots propped upon her father's desk. "Dracula has no mind for academics—he is an animal."

Velkan swallowed dryly as he resisted the urge to defend the vampire lord, knowing that such words would accomplish nothing. "We know so little of him, don't we?" he inquired softly, almost speaking to himself. "Aside from the tales that Father told us, we know nothing of his life at all."

"There is little life about him to learn, Velkan," Anna said darkly. "He was an ambitious tyrant who met his end at the hands of one of his own. Even his followers despised him; that must give you some clue as to his true nature. It is best not to question too deeply into these matters, otherwise you risk becoming…" She trailed off and fell into an uneasy silence, knowing that she had strayed into a topic of conversation that the family tried not to mention.

Velkan turned around to face his sister. "We cannot blind ourselves to history, Anna. Doing so would only harm us. Knowledge is one of the greatest powers of mankind, and sometimes studying the past is the only way to predict the future. Time never stops, nor does it stand still, but it _does_ repeat itself, and perhaps if we knew more details of Dracula's past, we could discover secrets that would-"

"Do not be so quick as to forget that knowledge is also dangerous," the princess quipped, rising from her chair. "True, there is power in it, but one must first have the ability to hold that power without allowing it to overtake them."

"Do you fear me to be overtaken?" Velkan said a little too harshly. "Because I was once a victim of Dracula's fancy, that makes me more vulnerable than any other person? No, Anna—it makes me _better_ than any other person, for I have witnessed the extent of his strengths and I do not fear him."

"You are beginning to sound boastful," Anna replied sharply. "Does being so much higher than the rest of us simple folk give you a sense of satisfaction? Simply because you can see in the night and read others' thoughts, you feel you are better qualified to deal with Dracula than anyone else?"

"I did not ask to become what I am!" he suddenly shouted, startling her. "I was robbed from God's hands to be used as a tool of vengeance, and you think I am proud of this?"

"I am not criticising you, Velkan, I am trying to help you! You cannot face Dracula by yourself. He is as much my burden as yours."

The prince turned his back, and Anna moved forward to embrace him. By her many years of closeness, she knew that her brother was moments away from an emotional collapse, and she had to reassure him in order to keep him from falling more deeply into the pit of despair that already threatened to swallow him whole.

"Together, Velkan," she said to him steadily, cheek pressed to the nape of his neck and arms wrapped tightly about his chest. "We fight this together, and we must not linger upon unpleasant truths. We share this responsibility. We share the blame, we share the hatred."

"But it is too much," came his broken whisper. "I am tired of hating him, Anna. There is a part of him in me now, and to hate him is to hate myself. I cannot do this anymore—it feels wrong. It hurts me. It _hurts_-!"

Anna could feel the silent sobs beginning to wrack his body, and held him all the tighter. Tears reduced her vision to blurs and shadows as she sensed her brother's suffering as acutely as if it were her own. "Feel me, Velkan," she breathed. "Know that I am here for you. I am here for you, as I will always be…"

"He is my father, Anna," the prince suddenly choked. "He _is_ my father, and I love him. I belong with him and all the legions of the damned, and I cannot hate him any longer!"

Velkan gasped loudly as his sorrow claimed him, and he began to quietly weep. His legs, weakened from bearing the weight of his accursed soul, lost their support and he toppled to his knees on the rug, dragging Anna down with him. "Let go of me," he begged. "Don't even touch me."

"You are my brother," she stated as firmly as the knot in her throat would allow. "I will always be proud to call you my brother, Velkan, even if you were the son of Satan himself. I love you, and I will not let you give yourself to Dracula until he has first sent me into Hell. Stay with us, Velkan. Don't leave us just yet. Please don't leave us…"

They sat on the floor of the study, shedding their tears together as they rocked slowly back and forth like lost little children with no way of returning home. Unbeknownst to them, Boris stood just beyond the threshold and had heard the entire incident. The once-valiant gypsy king felt what little hope he still carried in his heart extinguish like a tiny flame in the wind. Hearing his only son –his precious little boy whom he had loved and nurtured and tried to protect from evil– at last resign himself as the enemy's property was more than he could bear.

This was the end of all things, the last and final chapter in the long story of the Valerious' heroic attempts to rid the world of Vladislaus Dragulia. Velkan was no longer a bearer of the family name; the Count had succeeded in corrupting one of his opponent's offspring beyond salvation, a deed more painful and humiliating than death itself. The responsibility of bearing the next generation would now rely solely upon Anna, who was far too devoted to her wayward brother to concern herself with becoming a wife and mother. She would die fighting, the last of the Valerious, and she would shut the doors to Purgatory behind her.

Boris leaned heavily against the wall as he listened to his children weep, and he cursed Dracula for the hundred-thousandth time.

† † †

Verona was perched upon the northern battlement of the highest tower, dark hair billowing in the arctic wind, watching with eager eyes for the return of her lord while Marishka crouched beside her. Though the snow and sleet had formed glimmering crystals of ice upon their sheer gowns and pale flesh, they did not feel the bitter sting of coldness.

"He will not be back until dawn again," the fair-haired woman said with sadness in her voice. "Come, Verona. We must hunt without him tonight."

"He gave us that promise the last time he missed us," she replied, moving not from her post. "I will not allow him to break his vow again."

"You know he cannot help it," Marishka insisted gently. "The scientist requires all of his attention now, and you cannot punish yourself for his absence. Please go with me, Verona—Aleera has already left, and I do not like to hunt alone."

With a heavy sigh, the vampiress relented her vigil and followed her sister into the sky.

Such had been the nights of late: three beautiful brides sitting alone and neglected in their castle fortress as they waited for their husband to return from his affairs in the mortal realm. While they were by nature as wild and free as untamed beasts, the women harboured a desperate need for Vlad that had been instilled in them the moment their lord's blood had passed over their lips and made them into the eternal beings they now were. They craved his presence and constant attention, dependent upon his imitation of affection as if it were the most intoxicating drug in the world.

It could easily be said that they did not truly love Dracula, but loved only what he represented: rebellion, charisma, ambition, immortality. They were addicted to his power, drunk on his omnipotent image, and worshipped him as priestesses would worship their god. The brides were aware that their master would never truly return their passion as humans would to each other, but they willfully ignored this fact, choosing instead to believe that this was the evolution of love, its highest and most superiour form which only they had the grace to receive.

A part of each of them, perhaps the single remaining shred of humanity left fluttering amongst the rubble of their demolished souls, knew that this was but a fanciful lie, and that they were only shiny, pretty things locked inside a black and hollow heart.

But that heart was changing, the brides had noticed; it was filling with a vile liquid that threatened to drown them all in its revolting sweetness, an essence that not one of them had summoned forth. Their envy of Velkan Valerious had grown into an ugly, ponderous thing when they realised that it was he, the mortal prince, who was putting this disgusting substance into Dracula's heart, returning to him all the things that creatures of their ilk loathed and despised.

If the Count had poisoned Velkan against his family, so had Velkan poisoned the Count against his own.

Jealousy begot hatred, and hatred begot the need for vengeance. The brides no longer rejoiced at the idea of Velkan joining their family, and would see him dead before they surrendered their places to bow before their enemy's son.

† † †

The cold paleness of approaching dawn cast its sallow light through the windows of the Valerious armoury, where Velkan sat staring at the large map of Transylvania with sleepless eyes. Senses dulled by the half-empty bottle of wine that sat before him on the table, he gazed over the yellowed parchment for the hundredth time, not searching, but contemplating.

_So this is my prison,_ he thought. _I was born here, I live here, and I will die here. Never shall I feel the ocean's breeze. Never shall I sail across the waters, nor see the lights of great cities, nor taste the sweetness of love's first kiss. I was doomed the moment I was conceived, fated to live my life for one purpose, a purpose I know I can never fulfill. My life is already over—I am dead inside, but still I feel pain..._

Velkan shut his eyes tightly. He did not want to suffer the agony of living any longer. He did not want to suffer the hatred that others harboured towards him. He did not want to feel this hopelessness, this futility, this sorrow; he did not want to feel anything ever again. Happiness had left him when he was a child, and now nothing awaited his future but more despair and misery. How he wished to be eternally numb, lifeless and senseless to the world that had turned its back on him, leaving him stranded in this limbo known as Vaseria.

He swallowed the last of his wine and set his goblet on the table as he stood to his feet, his mind heavy and his body weakened from too many years of torment. He walked slowly to the map and rested his forehead against its canvas face, his fingers gently tracing the curving lines of the rivers and the sharp edges of the mountains—these were the boundaries of his hell, his prison, his grave, and there was no escaping its walls. He was trapped in this horrible place with people who would never truly understand him, not even his own family. He was completely and utterly alone, hanging between the world of the dead and the world of the living.

"O God," he whispered, "where am I? Where do I belong?"

Velkan slipped slowly to the floor where he sat in silence, listening to the sun rise in the east as he lay his head against the atlas. He stared, unblinking, unable to close his eyes despite the fatigue brought on by a sleepless night. His mind, of its own accord, had begun to read the narrow column of Latin text that he now knew by heart, his eyes following the words on the map's left side until they were abruptly cut off by a large chest. It did not occur to Velkan for a while, but gradually he came round, frowning slightly when he realised that the sentence had not ended correctly—in fact, it had not ended at all. There was more to the inscription behind the trunk.

With a sudden burst of energy, Velkan scrambled to the chest and grabbed its corners, pushing with all his might. Whatever was in it was incredibly heavy, and it took a great deal of grunting and pulling to move it only a few inches across the stone floor. The trunk had obviously sat there for decades, for the revealed corner of the parchment was pale, untouched by sunlight, and the sigil of a winged serpent graced its edge like a macabre fingerprint.

The prince gave one last heave and the trunk was pushed clear. He kneeled down to read the hidden text softly: "…_lux respice; Deum ac ianuam, imbeat aperiri_." He raised his head. "Look to the Light before setting forth; in the name of God, open this door."

Before Velkan's astonished eyes, the map began to change. It faded and withered from the centre outwards, blanching and growing smooth until its surface became as reflective as glass. He sprang to his feet and away from the atlas, watching with shock as it transformed into a broad, seamless mirror—and nothing else.

Velkan stared at his bewildered reflection with his heart pounding in his breast, waiting to see if something even more incredible would happen, but nothing did. His curiosity claimed the better half of his sensibility, and he stepped forward cautiously to inspect the mysterious object. He placed his hand upon its surface, but his eyes seemed to deceive him, for his hand met with nothing. Was it an illusion? He reached farther and farther still, riveted in disbelief as he beheld his hand sinking through the surface of the looking-glass. Whatever was on the other side was positively freezing, and when he pulled his hand away, it was covered in ice.

Velkan rubbed his frosty fingers meditatively, trying his hardest to think amidst the whirling tumult of his already overtaxed mind. Something—or some_place_—was behind this mirror; it was a door, and the presence of the dragon crest at the bottom of the map led Velkan to believe it could only mean one thing.

Taking a deep breath, the prince closed his eyes and stepped forward, vanishing through the mirror without a sound.

_To Be Continued..._


	8. Castle of the Dark Saint

**Father  
****Author:** H.J. Bender  
**Pairing:** --  
**Rating:** T  
**Summary:** Velkan finds himself in Dracula's realm, and makes his way through the treacherous fortress to find the vampire lord. However, he did not anticipate dealing with three jealous brides...  
**Disclaimer:** Main characters, events, original storyline, etc belong to Universal Studios 2004.  
**A/N:** I have taken a few liberties with ages and dates, though minimally. Enjoy.

_Without you, I cannot be.  
With you, I am also alone...  
The forest stands so black and empty,  
And the birds sing no more.  
__-_Rammstein, _Ohne Dich_

**VIII. The Castle of the Dark Saint**

When he opened his eyes, Velkan Valerious was standing on the precipice of a snow-beaten cliff, the door through which he had come standing behind him like a silent gravestone. On either side of him loomed a bottomless drop onto sharp pillars of rock. It was incredibly cold, and Velkan, dressed in nought but his casuals, shivered as the wind whipped about him. He would not survive in these conditions for long, and turned quickly to go back. However, when he attempted to pass through the mirror, he struck solid with its surface—there was no returning this way.

Panic momentarily seized the prince, and he knocked the glass with his fist, gently at first, then harder. It would not yield. He turned slowly and gazed through the falling snow, hoping to find another mirror through which he could exit this inhospitable place. It was then that he saw it, the behemoth of rock towering above him, an enormous silhouette so high that its top was lost within the foggy swirls of snow. Velkan at first imagined that the shadow was a mountain, but as he drew closer he saw that it was a castle—nay, a _kingdom_—carved from a scarred monolith of stone that rose up from an endless pit. It sat upon the crown of the depths like an island, surrounded on all sides by a wall of black mountains. Velkan was now standing upon the path that led to the palace door, marooned in a sea of air from which he had no chance of escaping.

Three towers stretched their jagged limbs towards the colourless heavens, their points as sharp as razors and as dark as onyx. Centuries of snow had gathered in the fissures and crags, adding to its already ancient appearance. Windows, the thousands of black eyes that seemed to stare at Velkan with poisonous regard, riddled all sides of the towers like knife wounds. An impossibly high bridge ran between the two foremost structures, fortified by chains that would have burdened a giant. Truly it was a masterpiece of architecture, but the castle's presence was as foreboding as if it had been moulded after the Devil's own mansion.

Velkan lost his breath as the image before his eyes ignited a wildfire of memories, and hundreds of dreams from his childhood came suddenly rushing back to him in the span of one moment; he knew then that this obsidian fortress was the home of the Dark Saint himself.

The wind suddenly charged at his back as if trying to sweep him into the bosom of this stone monster, and Velkan had no choice but to move with the gale or risk losing his footing on the icy terrain. As he stumbled through the snow, the two iron doors that barred the threshold from passage gave a haunting groan before slowly beginning to open. Like the jaws of a hell-beast spreading wide to receive its meal, the entranceway parted to reveal a belly of darkness: a huge hall the likes of which mortal men could never have conceived sprawled deep into the castle's throat, supported by arching columns that seemed to imitate a ribcage in their likeness.

If Velkan had never known terror before this moment, all twenty two years' worth of it seized hold of his heart in this very moment. He tried to scream but his breath was gone; he tried to turn away but the wind was too strong, urging him past a dead tree whose only fruits were the bones and tattered remains of unfortunate men who had passed this way. And then Velkan perceived a force, like that of an invisible tongue that had wrapped itself around his body, pulling him into the maw that beckoned before him. Against his will he staggered into its mouth, struggling and fighting every step of the way, but his efforts were not enough to keep him from being swallowed. However, once his feet had touched the cold stone of the foyer, the power that had so gripped him suddenly dissipated, and Velkan fell to the floor as he was released.

A hollow boom sounded behind him, echoing down the corridor, and the prince turned to discover that the doors had shut themselves, blocking his escape. He stood to his feet, thankful to be out of the elements, although the chill of the fortress was hardly any better than whence he had come. The silence that pressed upon his ears was nearly unbearable, and had he not already possessed the ability to see in the dark, he would have been blinded as well.

"You have called me here, and I answered," Velkan bravely proclaimed into the void as he began to walk forward. "For years you have beckoned me to this place, and now I have come to you at last. Will the master of the house not greet me?"

His echoes died in the great chasm, unanswered, and so the prince set forth to find his tormentor and his saint. Though he had never walked the halls of the palace, he had dreamt of its insides a thousand times over, and he found his way about as easily as if he had lived there all his life. In some shadowy corner of his mind, Velkan thought, perhaps he had.

The darkness seemed like a living creature, watching silently as the young man made his way through its veins and into its black heart. It whispered in his mind in a myriad of soft voices all speaking at once in a foggy tangle of unintelligible words; some of the voices welcomed him while others rejected him, and more than once Velkan found himself torn between continuing forth or fleeing into the deep to find his death. But the last remaining bit of pride that he held in himself was power enough to keep him set upon his course.

He was ever tense and alert, always anticipating something horrific to come leaping out at him from behind the next granite column. The longer that his expectations were met in vain, the greater he began to fear what lay at the end of his search, perhaps something more terrifying than what even the son of Dracula could bear. The prince encouraged himself to find anger in his heart, for its burning heat drove back the impending coldness of trepidation that was attempting to make a home out of his soul.

After what seemed like an eternity of walking through the dark, the corridor at last came to an end, and two broad staircases curved upwards on each side of a grand balcony. A massive window from high above shed its meek light upon the steps, and Velkan began to ascend them with caution. As he made his way up the stairwell, he fought to recall the details of the castle whose paths led him through a journey of dreams and memories. Was this the correct way? Has he missed his intended route? No. No, this was way, he was sure of it, for soon it would soon lead to a winding passage…

Velkan reached the balcony and found that his instincts had been correct; there was another hall, much darker in comparison to the broad corridor he had just travelled. Here it was unnaturally black, so bereft of light that even the air seemed thickened by the heavy atmosphere. The prince could scarcely see at all, so he closed his eyes and used his mind instead, stepping blindly down the passage that curved and wound about like a writhing serpent. Never once did he strike the wall by mistake.

For hours uncounted it seemed, Velkan wandered throughout the bowels of the castle fortress, guided by only his vague recollections. No mortal man could have withstood the ominous gravity of the palace's atmosphere, nor could he have found his way even by aid of a torch or a map; this place was a hellish labyrinth of shadows, intended to keep monsters in and people out, and drive to the point of madness any fool who dared to walk its halls. But Velkan was no mortal man—he conceded this the moment he had set foot inside these walls.

The shadows were soon cleaved, however; candlelight glowed from a room just ahead, and Velkan approached with unnatural stealth and silence, his footfalls muted by the evil darkness that had so lovingly wrapped itself about him. He stepped into a wide room with a towering ceiling and beheld a stone coffin sitting in its centre, a semicircle of candelabras arranged around it. It was very cold inside, though the unnatural temperature chilled the soul more than the flesh. Melted wax from the giant candles had formed hardened cascades that hung off the trays and dripped puddles of fresh wax onto the floor. Velkan felt his heart begin to pound, and he drew closer to the marble casket, surprised to find that it bore no lid, but was instead filled to the brim with solid ice; and there, lying peacefully within the frozen arms of death, lay the Dark Saint.

Velkan lost his breath momentarily as he saw what was a monster to many, appearing now as nought more than a sleeping man—he reached out to brush away the frost from the crystalline surface so that he could see his Saint more clearly, and laid his warm palm upon the ice over Dracula's face.

"Do you dream of me," he murmured softly as he gazed into the coffin, "as I dream of you? How often have you woken with my voice still echoing in your mind, I wonder? Am I with you throughout the night, or am I forgotten the moment you wake?"

Unable to control his frustration, Velkan struck the ice with his fist and only succeeded in hurting his hand. Tears stung his eyes as he cried, "You will not continue to ruin my life, you bastard! Have I not endured enough of your torture? Did I not heed your call and travel to this wretched place to find you? I have done all of these things, yet here you are, sealed safely in a frozen slumber and enjoying rest that I have never known. You are my nightmare, Count, and I cannot shut my eyes without seeing your face!"

At this, the prince threw both fists onto the ice. "Wake, damn you! Wake and free me from my nightmares! I'll not wait for you any longer!"

He hit the ice again and again, scratched at it, clawed at it, and left smudges of blood on its clear surface before finally resting his cheek against its biting kiss of coldness. He wept freely and loudly, choking on his sobs as he lay draped over the casket. Never had he wished so desperately for his Saint's embrace than now, when everything around him was spiralling down into chaos.

And here it was, this wall of ice between them, the personification of their grief and their anger: the water that gives life and the coldness that takes it, an element one and the same, the barrier between the living and the dead that would for ever separate them. Even as close as they were at this moment, the loneliness was as profound as if they were on opposite sides of the world.

How beautiful it was, this inexplicable phenomenon known as love, yet still the source of so much pain and woe.

"I surrender," Velkan whispered as his tears trickled down his face and dripped onto the ice. "Let me stay with you, Father. I don't belong amongst the living…"

"And what makes you think you belong with us?"

The prince sprang up with a startled gasp, and turned to see the red-haired Aleera glaring at him as if he were a loathsome insect that needed to be crushed. She sauntered forward, hips swinging seductively but her aura radiating malice. Velkan stepped back as she approached, unable to answer her question for the tightness in his throat.

"We do not want you," she said lowly, following him as he circled around the coffin. "You and your kind are worthless creatures whose only purpose is to feed us."

"We are more alike than you know, Aleera," said Velkan, keeping a cautious distance between himself and the woman. "Dracula possesses your soul as he does mine—we are both victims of his power."

"Perhaps _you_ are the victim, you fool," the vampiress sneered, closing the distance between herself and the prince, "for I chose to become this way, to follow my master and serve him and his needs until the end of eternity." The heat of her ire was abruptly chilled with something that could have been sorrow. "Do you know how fortunate you are to be favoured by Dracula? Do you know how greatly I strove to take my place at his side, to be selected from the hundreds of women he could have had? You have no idea!"

Velkan was stunned to see a shimmer of tears coursing down Aleera's pale cheeks, betrayers of desperation amidst her fury, and he felt almost pity for the girl who was perhaps no older than his own sister. "Aleera, my lady," he said softly and respectfully, "I do not wish to fight with you. I want only to be freed from curse that Dracula has placed upon me-"

"You would call our lord's love a curse?" came Marishka's voice from high above.

Startled, Velkan lifted his head and discovered the fair-haired bride upside-down, pacing the stone rafters above and looking unusually despondent.

"You do not know how greatly he adores you, Velkan," she said softly. "You have all but brought him back to life, and if his heart could beat again, it would beat for you alone."

"How dare you say such things! You speak treason!" Aleera snarled to her sister.

"You know it is the truth," Marishka replied.

"Then perhaps you would like to be the first to surrender your ring to the filthy human!"

As the two brides began to quarrel, Velkan decided to make the best of this opportunity by attempting to steal away, yet he had not gotten far before he quite literally stumbled upon an unexpected impasse: Verona, the eldest bride, appeared from the shadows like a ghost and intercepted his escape with predatory stealth. There was an oddly detached expression on her face, as if she were being forced to do something she would rather not, and as she approached Velkan her voice was cold and dispassionate:

"There has been a change of plans, my little prince," she murmured, gown rustling quietly as she walked. "It seems you will not be joining our family after all."

Aleera and Marishka ceased arguing for a moment to refocus their attention upon Velkan, who was stepping backwards to get himself away from the dark-haired bride's advances; Aleera joined her, yet Marishka remained upon the ceiling, too occupied with wallowing in her own forlornness to have anything to do with the prince.

"I had no intention of being a part of your court," Velkan stated bravely to the two women, though the menacing looks in their eyes were as lionesses stalking a wounded, helpless animal. "I only came here seeking release from your lord's power."

"We can give that to you easily," Aleera grinned, revealing her sharp teeth.

"Yes," crooned Verona, "perhaps you would like to go flying with us one last time, my dear? The view above the gorge is quite remarkable."

"Some would even say it is to die for!" laughed the red-haired vampiress.

Velkan knew that whatever action he took would end badly, but he also knew it was better to die on his feet rather than on his knees. A moment's deliberation later, he bolted across the room in a farfetched endeavour to reach the doorway. He went all of three paces before being thrown against the adjacent wall by Verona's hand, where he struck his head and was blinded by pain for a few moments. He slid down the stones, senses reeling, and opened his eyes in time to narrowly avoid Aleera—transformed into her monstrous shape—flying at him with her talons readied to rend his flesh.

The prince rolled across the floor as the bride screamed to a halt lest she collide with the wall, and he was on his feet again and running for the room's only exit. If he had but thought to bring some sort of weapon! Perhaps if he made it into the corridor, he could lose them in the darkness. It was a blind hope, and it was quickly dashed as Verona, likewise in her hideous vampiric form, flew above his head and grabbed him by the back of his vest, lifting him into the air.

Velkan struggled to free himself before she could carry him high enough to kill him, and he hurriedly unfastened his buttons and slipped out of his vest, dropping to the floor and running as quickly as his feet could carry him. The furious screams from behind lent him swiftness, and just as he thought himself to have a chance at disappearing into the corridor, Aleera rose up from beneath him and sent him sprawling backwards to the floor with one powerful kick.

Velkan gasped to restore the air to his lungs one more, and had only the strength to prop himself up before the merciless vampiress—once again returned to her deadly human beauty—placed her foot on his chest and shoved him down against the floor. She smiled sadistically at his vain struggling. "I could break your bones like kindling," she purred. "But then you would be dead, and such a waste of good blood."

Velkan was suddenly wrenched off of the floor by two strong hands, and he felt Verona's cold body press against his back as she held his wrists in an iron grasp. "Do not struggle," she whispered softly against his collar. "It only makes the blood spatter more messily."

An icy wave of fear surged through the prince, who could only observe in half-fascinated horror as Aleera, grinning triumphantly, drew close and began to caress his face, stroking her fingers through his hair in a manner that would have rendered any man a slave to his own desire. Velkan strongly resisted these seductive touches, but this only amused her.

"You have never been with a woman, have you, my prince?" Aleera murmured in a velveteen voice, trailing her long fingernail down his throat and into his open shirt collar. "Such pity. Dying a virgin will be so unfulfilling-"

A sudden cracking pierced the air, followed by what sounded like the shattering of a thousand crystal glasses. Shards of ice exploded from the centre of the room, and when Velkan next saw Aleera's face, it was filled with terror. The hands holding his captive wrists were suddenly gone, and as he allowed himself to slip to the floor, he heard Verona's fear-saturated voice cry from behind, "My lord!"

Velkan turned his head to behold Dracula standing upon the edge of his casket, glaring at his two brides with his eyes alight with silent rage. "What noise is this that has awoken me?" he asked in a dangerously low tone, implying that he already knew what had taken place.

His two women wilted before him, a shocking contrast to the ferocious creatures they had been but moments before. "We are sorry, master," they whimpered. "We were only entertaining our guest until-"

"_Do not lie to me!_" the Count roared, jumping to the floor and stalking across the room to where Velkan sat dazed. Verona and Aleera retreated, clinging to one another and weeping piteously.

"What were you doing with him?" Vlad demanded. "What were you doing with our son?"

"We were playing, master," Marishka said airily as she walked down from one of the columns. "He wandered in on his own, and we were only keeping him company. It seems that he wishes to speak with you." She glared dispassionately down at Velkan, who returned her gaze with amazement. "We shall take our leave of you now. Come, sisters—we must rest."

The three brides made their way from the room and into the darkened corridor beyond; echoes of their cries could still be heard as they disappeared into the depths of the castle. Velkan heaved a great sigh when he was certain they had gone, and grimaced slightly at the aches which glowed through his limbs. And then, like a curtain of coldness, he felt Dracula's gaze settle upon him; he raised his head and beheld thus, riveted before the eyes that burned with ages-old hatred but also reluctant compassion.

"How did you find this place?" Vlad asked levelly. "Why have you come here?"

Velkan was hesitant to speak, least of all move a muscle. He fought to find his words, to either answer the question or allow himself to fly into a helpless rage. He lowered his head in silence, and when he at last spoke, his voice came much meeker than he intended: "Because I have no place left to go."

The Count appeared as if he wanted to smile at the boy's plight, but intuition held his triumph at bay. "And what troubles you so direly that you would come here seeking my counsel, Valerious?" he said haughtily. "Perhaps your father is dying? Your sister? Some other worthless mortal whom you claim to love?"

"The only person dying is I," said Velkan, standing slowly to his unsteady feet. "You have won, Count; I surrender myself to your whim." He then bowed before his enemy, and when he lifted his eyes, they reflected a lifetime of unfathomable shame. "Do with me as you wish. I am at your disposal."

Dracula said nothing at first, but stared at Velkan with smouldering eyes and clenched fists. "You snivelling craven," he sneered. "How _dare_ you come crawling to me and beg my mercy? Have I taught you nothing of endurance? Have you not learned to survive because of me?"

"You have taught me enough," Velkan answered stoutly, "but I am still only mortal."

"And still so young! You are only yet becoming something that might prove to be useful to me, but you say now that you have given up? Do not insult me! I have toiled and laboured to transform you from an ignorant fool into a powerful creature! You are my greatest work of art, and yet _this_ is how you honour me, with your cowardice and your resignation. _Pathetic_," the Count spat. "What happened to the fire that burned in your heart, Valerious? Where is your hatred for me?"

"My heart has been poisoned by it," Velkan said, fighting to stifle his tears. "I refuse to spend the rest of my life at war with you."

"I am afraid that cannot be helped. Such as the Valerious have sworn an oath to destroy me, so have I to destroy them, down to the last drop of blood. The battles between us are inevitable, and shall be everlasting so long as we both are alive."

"I will not allow you to harm my family," Velkan said firmly.

Dracula shrugged indifferently. "Then there is little to be done, is there not?"

The prince set his jaw determinedly. "I have a proposition for you, Count. A bargain."

"Speak it then—but understand, I do not barter with my enemies."

Velkan gulped. "In exchange for the lives of my sister and my father, I would offer you mine."

The vampire lord grinned caustically. "How gallant of you. But you forget, you are worth more to me alive than dead."

"I said I would offer you my life, not my death."

"What is it, then, that you are asking?"

Velkan winced as he forced the bitter-tasting words from his lips: "I would want to become your immortal son, for ever and ever. A vampire like yourself. Allow my family to succumb to natural deaths, and you will have me by your side for eternity. My life has little meaning to me anymore, and I would rather be at peace in Hell than at war on earth. Please, Father. I…" He choked a moment. "I would honour and serve you loyally."

Dracula's face was grim, and if one looked closely enough, they would see the anguish haunting the shadows in his eyes. "You know not of what you speak," he said warningly. "I will not grant you this desire."

What little resilience Velkan retained in his appearance crumpled in his desperation. "If you loved me you would have mercy on me-"

"_You senseless brat!_" the Count erupted with a deafening bellow, darting forward in the blink of an eye to strike the prince across the face with the back of his hand. "_It is that very love which prevents me from destroying you!_"

Velkan stumbled backwards in shock, holding a hand gingerly to his smarting cheek and looking incredibly bewildered by Dracula's words. Tears stung the his eyes, and he turned his face away so that his Saint would not see them fall.

Vlad flexed his fingers and took a deep breath, still feeling the repercussion of the blow stinging them stiff; it was the first time he had raised his hand to the boy, and yet only now in his whole godless, accursed existence did he feel like a true monster.

"Get out of my sight," he rasped, turning away from his son and swallowing with difficulty.

Velkan, consumed with despair and even greater shame, said softly, "I cannot pass through the looking-glass from this side."

The vampire lord remained still, his head hanging in an unusual exhibition of hollow serenity. "That is because you are not a vampire, nor have you destroyed me. Only undead blood can pass through the door again."

"Does this mean I am trapped here?" Velkan ventured.

"Hardly." Vlad turned, and his expression was placid as he held out his hand. "Come to me," he said softly in a voice bereft of any enchantment; Velkan approached him cautiously but willingly. The Count took him by the arm and gazed at him in silence for a length, then drew back the sleeve of his black coat and pressed his sharp thumbnail into the tender skin of his own wrist. When the dark blood began to flow, he gathered the lifeless liquid onto his fingers, and touched them to Velkan's crown—thin rivulets coursed down the sides of the prince's nose as Dracula made the sign of an inverted cross upon his brow, a hellish painting that brought forth memories of a squirming infant on a cold spring night many years ago.

When Dracula had finished, the wound in his wrist began to heal. "There," he murmured. "You carry my undead blood with you as a key. Now leave, and never return here again."

Velkan, despite the guarantee of his survival from this wicked place, could not bear to depart after accomplishing nothing, and in a final futile effort to beseech mercy from the Dark Saint, he implored gently, "Please… don't-"

"Promise me," the Count commanded sternly. "Promise me, Velkan. You will not return here."

The prince, realising his attempts to bargain his life away had proven vain, closed his eyes and nodded in reluctant resignation. "I promise."

Dracula looked askance. "Very well then. Go. Do not seek me out, for I will come to you when I need you. When we meet again, I hope you to be stronger than you are now."

"I will try," said Velkan quietly, "but never will I be as strong as you."

"Do not be so certain," Vlad said with a vague smile on his lips. "You are my child, after all."

† † †

The moment he passed through the mirror once more, Velkan began to rub the tainted blood from his face, so that he would not be seen with such sacrilegious marks disgracing his body; it was quite enough to be thought of as the Offspring of the Beast without rumours of bloody symbols painted on his flesh being circulated about the town.

When the prince turned to see if his reflection still bore crimson smudges, he was surprised to find himself standing before the same map of Transylvania that had been present before he discovered the secret passage. For a moment he began to think that perhaps he had suffered from a serious delusion and had dreamt the entire event, but the cold blood staining his right sleeve was enough evidence to discount the possibility of dreaming.

"I promise never to return, Count," said Velkan quietly as he knelt down to the corner of the atlas. "But if I cannot pass by this way again, then neither shall anyone else." And, pulling the edge of the ancient paper from the frame, tore off the last few words on the corner and stuffed it in his pocket. He stood once more, and with effort moved the massive trunk back into place to obscure his treacherous deed. No sooner had he finished the task when Anna entered the armoury, quite out of breath and looking as if she had not slept at all. When she saw her brother from across the room, she cried out his name and dashed towards him.

"Anna? What-?" Velkan inquired as he found his arms suddenly occupied by his uncharacteristically overwrought sister, who clung to his neck and tried to hide the fact that she was crying by burying her face into his shirt.

Perplexed, Velkan had no choice but to wait until she had calmed herself, though he suspected that the time had changed significantly since he had first stepped through the looking-glass. When at last Anna pulled away, she held his face in her hands and said harshly, "Where have you been? Everyone has been looking for you! Papa thought you had run away, and I… O God, we turned Vaseria upside-down in our search!" She embraced him again. "You are so cold… why is there snow on your clothes? Velkan, where…?"

He did not wish to lie, so he merely averted her questions: "I'm sorry. I wasn't aware I would be so sorely missed."

"Sorely missed! How can you speak like that! You up and disappeared two days ago without telling anyone, and now I find you in our own home, cold as ice and… my God, Velkan, are you injured? Where did that blood come? Is that a bruise on your face?"

"An accident," he replied deftly, avoiding Anna's piercing stare.

"What sort of accident? Did you go hunting on your own? Velkan, you know how dangerous that is—we could have lost you! Did you not think of what Papa and I would have gone through had you been killed by a werewolf? You cannot leave us like this! Why did-"

Velkan interrupted his sister's anger by taking her hands in his own and kissing her brow; she was effectively rendered mute by this odd behaviour, and stared at him as if he were a stranger. "Velkan…?"

"I will never leave you again, Anna," he avowed. "I am sorry I caused you to worry. It will not happen again, I swear it."

"Velkan," she whispered, shaking her head and brushing his frosty auburn hair from his forehead. "What happened to you? Why are you acting so differently?"

He smiled reassuringly. "It is still me, little sister. I only needed time alone to find myself."

Anna gazed at him expectantly. "And did you?"

"Only for a moment," the prince answered softly, turning his head to stare at the dusking night which was falling outside the windows. "There is still much I have to do with my life before…"

"Before what?" she asked, but Velkan did not reply.

With still many questions fermenting betwixt the two siblings, they departed the armoury together to find their father, leaving behind the map that would never again reveal its secret to the living world, so long as its final words remained undiscovered.

_To Be Continued..._


	9. Be Strong & Endure

**Father  
****Author:** H.J. Bender  
**Pairing:** --  
**Rating:** T  
**Summary:** A grave-robbing incident goes terribly awry, and Victor Frankenstein finds himself in a race against time to save Velkan from dying after being attacked by a werewolf...  
**Disclaimer:** Main characters, events, original storyline, etc belong to Universal Studios 2004.  
**A/N:** I have taken a few liberties with ages and dates, though minimally. Enjoy.

_Without you, I cannot be.  
With you, I am also alone...  
The forest stands so black and empty,  
And the birds sing no more.  
__-_Rammstein, _Ohne Dich_

**IX. "Be Strong & Endure"**

_Journal of Victor Frankenstein, M.D. Ph.D.  
__18 December 1886_

_Steady progress being made as of date, and the Machine's smaller prototype has yielded positive results. Past success with reanimating a dead frog has prompted the Count to encourage taking matters to a grander scale. Size unfortunately a key factor in determining success of experiments; in nothing larger than a canine have I been able to sustain re-life for more than a few hours (see logbook dated 24 Sept). Graduating to mammalian creatures still deemed an achievement. _

_Began construction of full-scale Machine three months ago_—_though prototype still not wholly tested_—_at the Count's request; he seems urgent and as eager as I to see progress. He remains my only friend and companion, and I feel obligated to please him. His happiness is my happiness, likewise is my failure also his. I find myself striving to exceed his expectations, and hope I will not fail him._

_Weather is ideal for electrical analysis, unfortunately so—the dynamos took a direct hit from a bolt of lightning last month and required several weeks' worth of recalibration. By luck a vagrant hunchback arrived at the castle, and I have taken him to hire. Quiet and quick to learn, he has been of great help to me, despite his handicap and humble appearance. Would not have been able to repair equipment in such short time without him. His aid has granted me more time to focus upon the biological aspects of this endeavour, which is a great turn of fortune._

_In short time I expect to graduate to human test subjects, though lack of medical cadavers and the unorthodox motives of this realm of science provokes questions of my own morality, and at what lengths I am willing to risk breaking the laws of Man and God._

The dirt of a freshly-covered grave was thrown from shovels as two shadowy figures worked by the light of a single lamp set upon a new headstone. It was an unbearably cold night, and a layer of snow covered the ground, reflecting the bluish light of the moon glowing in the sky above. It would have been a serene landscape if not for the unholy deed being committed at this moment.

Victor Frankenstein, cheeks ruddy from the low temperature and fingers aching with a numbing stiffness, ignored his own discomfort and thrust the shovel into the earth. He would not have wished the climate any different, for the cold preserved dead flesh better than the warmth.

"Hurry, Igor," he huffed, breath forming a misty cloud. "We must leave here before the gravekeeper changes his post."

The hunchback, working diligently beside the doctor, gave a grunt said in his hoary voice, "The gravekeeper is not on watch tonight."

"Why not?" Victor panted, continuing to dig without pause.

"Full moon. Werewolves," croaked the disfigured little man, as if it were a perfectly logical answer.

"Rubbish," the doctor muttered. "Nothing but the product of a fool's imagi-" His shovel suddenly struck against hollow-sounding wood—the treasure had at last been reached.

Igor smiled. "We were lucky this man was poor, otherwise he would have been buried much deeper."

"Indeed, one's poverty is another's fortune," said Victor, laying aside his shovel and crouching down inside the shallow grave. He scooped the loose dirt away with his hands while the hunchback stood on the ground above and held the lamp aloft.

"Igor, the crowbar!" said Victor sharply, and was obediently handed the iron lever. He pried the chisel under the pine lid of the coffin and systematically went round the circumference of the box, freeing the nails enough to the point where he could finally grip the lid with his hands and pull it back.

The scent of death, pungent and earthy, wafted up from the contents of the cheap casket as the sallow-faced body of a dead man was revealed, stiff with rigour mortis, lying crammed within the confines. Igor turned his head away in disdain, but Victor, long accustomed to the sight and scent of corpses, deftly reached inside to grab the man's shoulders and haul him up. What a surprise he received when he succeeded with such ease, only to discover the reason lay in the fact that the man had been gruesomely severed at the waist.

"Good God!" Victor cried, dropping the torso in shock and covering his mouth to quell his nausea. The dried entrails of the body lay in a black and red pool at the bottom of the coffin.

Igor chuckled in a low rasp. "No such thing as werewolves, doctor? No, this man just fell on his plow. How clumsy of him."

Victor shot an incredulous, disgusted glare at his assistant before composing himself once more. "His demise doesn't matter, and the body is still of use to me. Half of it, anyway. Fetch the sack, Igor. I will carry it from here."

The hunchback delivered the coarse bag to his master, who quickly stuffed the torso—dangling ribbons of muscle and bowel—inside and twisted it closed. He tossed the burden to Igor and set to work resealing the coffin lid. Once the task was complete, the two men hurriedly shoveled the dirt over top the grave once more, taking care to see that it was as close to untouched-looking as possible.

As they were making ready to depart, the silence of the desolate, snowy cemetery was broken by a long, unwavering howl, one unlike any Victor had ever heard, rising from the edge of the nearby forest. Both he and Igor glanced at each other in wordless alarm, then turned their heads in the direction of the deep, black woods. The leafless tree branches rose like twisted bones from the solid wall of darkness formed by their trunks; the moon illuminated the narrow strip of field between the leaning, decrepit headstones and the forest, but nothing more could be seen.

Victor wanted to ask what on God's earth had made that noise—he knew what it sounded _like_, but a lupine creature capable of braying that strongly was surely some form of grossly-mutated and aberrant speciæs. Despite his practicality, Victor found himself half-believing the fairy-tale legends of those terrible wolf-monsters, and that was how the fear was allowed into his heart.

"Let's not linger here, Igor," he said in a faltering voice, but the hunchback was already making his way towards the nearby waggon with an anxious, limping gait. Victor followed earnestly, tossing the sack and his shovel into the waggon bed and hopping onto the bench. He extended his hand to Igor, who took it and scrambled into the back, looking cautiously about as if he might already be surrounded by creatures even more frightening-looking than himself.

The doctor took the reins and urged the horse forward on the narrow road that led into the trees. Unfortunately they would have to pass through the forest once more to return to the castle, but despite these circumstances, Victor slowly began to feel a sense of relief as they left behind the scene of yet another crime and entered the cover of darkness . He began to go through a mental list of procedures for salvaging usable parts from this corpse, and was most preoccupied with his thoughts when he heard Igor make a strange sound.

"Did you say something, Igor?"

The hunchback stammered unintelligibly, and Victor turned about on the bench to see what was the matter. Igor's dark little eyes were fixed upon something on the road behind them, and the doctor felt a surge of fear and adrenaline course down his spine like an electric current when he saw it as well: a massive shape, nought more than a black shadow, was following them with predatory deliberation from less than a hundred paces away. It walked on all fours like a beast, yet its shoulders did not roll as naturally as they should, giving it the impression of a man striding on his arms and legs. The lamplight caught the creature's eyes and reflected them back, two yellow-green orbs shining from a monstrous mane.

"Is it a dog?" Victor whispered, throat constricted with terror.

"Too big. Go faster," Igor grunted, keeping his eyes on the beast.

"Is it a dog?" the doctor repeated, unwilling to force from his tongue the real word which he was thinking. "Why is it following us? Tell it to go away, Igor."

"I would, doctor, but it smells meat."

Victor stammered as he fought to control his panic, "Meat? You mean the corpse."

"No. Us." Igor paused emphatically. "They do not eat from dead flesh."

"They?"

"Werewolves."

"_They?_"

"You must drive faster."

Victor turned around, too horrified to be completely rational. "Just ignore it. It will go away."

"Doctor…"

"Just ignore it."

"It is getting closer. Go faster."

"Going faster will only make it chase us. Just ignore it, Igor. Pretend it is not even there. Wild animals will not take interest if we-"

"Doctor," the hunchback growled, "in another minute our mutilated friend is going to have company, and we would be lucky to be in as many pieces."

Victor closed his eyes tightly and held the reins in a white-knuckled grasp. He was trapped in a multi-faceted nightmare from which he could not wake, torn between the smothering arms of sanity and the wild abandon of pure terror. The urge to scream was unbearable. Alone and vulnerable with no place to hide, having just committed a gruesome deed, Victor thought perhaps this beast following their waggon was a form of God's justice for all of the atrocities that had taken place. How strange that the doctor would contemplate his actions only now, when his life was in peril; it was as if the power of fear were lifting a spell that had been cast upon him for the past year. Or maybe it was nothing but an instinctive reflex when one's final moment was upon them.

Igor clambered in the back of the waggon, holding a shovel ready but cowering shamelessly.

Victor opened his eyes. "Not yet," he murmured, suddenly detached from the situation altogether. "I cannot die just yet. There is too much to be done. My fate is in _my_ hands… not His."

He cracked the reins and the horse broke into a run. The trees became a blur of lines and shadows, and Victor leaned into the biting wind, eyes watering and heart pounding desperately as the waggon jolted and rattled behind the galloping horse. At the same moment, the creature let out a snarl that the two men heard even at their distance, and began to barrel towards them like an unstoppable engine. Igor uttered a strangled scream as the beast drew nearer, and when the knife-like claws of its forefeet sank into the wooden gate, the hunchback swung the shovel and landed its sharp edge upon the monster's left foot. Blood spangled the air as the toes were severed, and there came a roar of pain that turned all mortal hearts to ice.

A furry black head was thrust into view; yellow eyes burned ferociously as if with all the sins in Hell; white fangs gleamed like hot, arching daggers. The werewolf snapped and snarled, jaws clipping together like two mighty beams of wood slamming into one another. With certain death but inches away, Igor swung the shovel again and landed a strike against the beast's long snout, but it turned quickly after the blow had fallen and grabbed the weapon in its mouth, wrenching it from the hunchback's grasp.

Igor fell back against the bench and watched helplessly as the werewolf prepared to spring forward and finish him.

The thundering of two sets of hooves suddenly sounded on either side of the waggon, and from the trees appeared two riders clad in black, racing up from behind on their dark steeds. Their faces masked by sashes and thin scarves, they rode their horses with the skill and speed of seasoned bandits, yet they seemed entirely focused upon the werewolf that had not yet taken notice of their presence.

One of the riders effortlessly slipped his feet from the stirrups and crouched upon the saddle, waiting for the horse to draw close enough to the beast. Then he leapt into the air and landed directly upon the werewolf's back, planting a long silver knife between its shoulder blades.

The wounded creature brayed so fiercely that it sent a thunder clap of pain surging through one's ears. It immediately loosed its grip upon the waggon and tumbled into the road, snarling and rolling violently with the heroic stranger through mud and snow.

The second rider quickly abandoned the waggon and turned to aid the first, who now faced the werewolf on foot. Igor at last managed to crawl his way to the bench, grabbing Victor's coat as he did. "It is gone!" he wheezed.

"What happened?" the doctor cried.

"A black rider attacked it—keep going!"

Victor turned around to see the situation they were leaving behind them: the injured werewolf rising on its hind feet and facing a figure who sat helplessly on the ground, most likely injured. Though he was terrified out of his senses, the doctor was too much of a philanthropist to simply turn a blind eye on what would be an undoubtedly gory, horrific death. His job was to protect and prolong human life, and what sort of hypocrite would be if he were to allow such an end to befall his fellow man? It went against everything he had ever stood for.

It was with this thought that Victor felt the courageous warmth of bravery bloom through his heart, and he jerked the reins sharply, slowing the waggon to a halt.

"What are you doing!" Igor spluttered in panic, watching with disbelief as the doctor sprang down from the waggon and grabbed his shovel in hand. "Are you mad? You will kill us both!"

But Victor paid no heed as he ran headlong towards the werewolf, shouting and boldly brandishing his shovel like a broadsword. The beast raised its brutish head at the noisome man, giving the second rider a clear line to fire six silver bullets into its chest. The first rider scrambled backwards to the edge of the road, unable to get on his feet, watching the creature scream and writhe on the ground in agony, spasms wracking its mighty body.

Victor slowed as he approached, gripping his shovel tightly as he observed the werewolf's movements grow gradually weaker until at last it lay slumped in the muck, utterly still. And then, like watching the natural process of a flower budding or the sun rising, the monster began to wilt, its hair and skin falling off like a shell to reveal the body of a man, lying nude, with six holes in his chest and four fingers missing on his left hand.

The doctor's breath still came in gasps and he blinked several times, pondering the credulity of his own eyes. Surely this was a raving madman at whom he was looking now, some sort of deranged lunatic in an animal costume. But the size of the beast did not match the size of the dead man, and Victor felt himself losing grip of his sanity. This whole night seemed to be drawn from the pages of a horror story, only all the more horrific because it had been real.

The second rider sprang from their horse and ran to their fallen comrade, and Victor heard a distinctly feminine voice call, "Velkan! Velkan!"

Images of a blue-eyed young man flashed in the doctor's mind, and he dropped his shovel to hurry to the riders. The young woman, hood pulled back to reveal a lovely face framed by dark curls, was tending to her partner by the time Victor kneeled down.

"Injured is he?" he spoke in his slightly-improved Romanian, though he was not accustomed to this form of dialect. "I am a doctor, I will help you. His neck—hold it. Do not move him."

The girl nodded worriedly and allowed Victor to remove the cloth from the rider's face so as to ease his breathing. He was shocked to be met with the haunting eyes of Velkan Valerious gazing up at him; the young man immediately recognised the German from their previous encounter several months before.

"_What are _you _doing here?_" he demanded in Latin. "_That werewolf, it was chasing you?_"

The young woman said something to Velkan in Romanian, what sounded like: _You know this person?_

"_Do not talk, Master Valerious,_" said Victor, hurriedly making his way through the thin layers of cloth to inspect the gypsy for injuries—he was probably freezing in these clothes and wearing them only for the sake of mobility and lightness. "_Do not move, either. You may have broken your bones._"

Velkan shut his eyes tightly, more a reaction of dismay rather than pain. "_Something hurts..._"

The doctor at last unfastened the buttons on the prince's black shirt and opened it wide, revealing the pale skin of a well-formed abdomen, marred by four deep lacerations that coursed blood like springs. "Cover, quick!" he said to the young woman, who hastily began to tear off her scarves as Victor reached out and grabbed a handful of snow, packing it onto the wounds. Velkan let out a scream when the ice touched him, and began to curse in an impressive variety of languages.

"_Do not struggle,_" Victor said to him calmly, stroking the young man's forehead and checking his eyes for signs of dilation or shock. "_The coldness will close the capillaries, and the bleeding will slow. Do you feel any numbness, any dizziness?_"

"_Have I been bitten?_" Velkan asked desperately, face contorted with suffering.

"_No, but you have been badly clawed. You will need these wounds shut._" He nodded to the girl. "_Your wife?_"

"_My sister,_" Velkan retorted.

"_Does she speak Latin?_"

"_Well enough,_" Anna interrupted, glaring at the doctor as she pressed her folded sash to her brother's wounds. "_How bad is he?_"

"_He will need a surgeon to close these lacerations—where lives your doctor?_"

"_Our doctor was killed four months ago,_" said Anna. "_Now we have no one._"

Victor deliberated a moment, gazing down at the shuddering young man who was slowly bleeding to death, and then up at the silhouette of the waggon. Creating life could wait, but saving life could not. However, he could not risk the discovery of his plans by taking the gypsy and his sister back to the castle labouratory. Even though he was better equipped to deal with an emergency there rather than at any other place, the Count was adamant about keeping the experiment undisclosed. Victor made up his mind.

"Igor!" he called, and the hunchback shuffled into view. "Return to the castle. This boy needs medical attention, and I will return when I have finished mending him."

"Yes, doctor," Igor grumbled.

Victor turned to Anna. "_How far is your home?_"

† † †

The front doors of Valerious Manor burst open, and Victor walked over the threshold carrying Prince Velkan in his arms. Anna darted to the fore, directing the doctor towards the scullery where she swept her arm across a table and sent candlesticks clattering to the floor. Victor carefully laid the young man upon its surface and shrugged off his bulky coat, folding it and placing it under Velkan's head.

He began to roll up his sleeves and asked of Anna, "Do you have any alcohol? Wine, vodka, gin-"

"We have plenty."

"Bring several bottles, and hurry."

Anna nodded and rushed away to fetch the liquor as Victor peeled off Velkan's shirt. The prince groaned softly and closed his eyes; the doctor was immediately shaking him and patting his cheek.

"Do not fall asleep, Master Valerious. You must stay awake."

"I'm so weary," he mumbled.

"That is because you have lost much blood," Victor told him, moving towards the black iron stove and stoking its coals. "If you lose consciousness, you might never come out of it." He placed a large kettle upon the stovetop before turning to his patient again. It had been years since the doctor had last dealt with living persons, but his medical brilliance was not limited by this effect in the least.

He checked Velkan's eyes once more for signs of delirium, and put pressure on the bloody rags to further staunch the blood flow. The prince made a small noise in his throat, but did not cry out. Victor saw that he was in excruciating pain, and found himself admiring the lad's courage.

"I don't believe I've met a braver person than you," he admitted whole-heartedly. "Any man in your situation would be half-mad and screaming like a child."

A thin smile graced Velkan's lips. "My Father has taught me to be strong and endure," he said with a trace of sadness staining his voice.

"Your father…" Victor narrowed his eyes as he entered a stage of keen pondering, such as he would if he were trying to connect two formulas. "Have I met him? I feel as if…"

"Boris? Very unlikely," said the prince, wincing a little as he shifted about on the tabletop. "He distances himself from everyone, even Anna and I. Ever since Mother…" He trailed off, and Victor understood the unspoken well enough.

"I see," he murmured. "My condolences. Is your father here now?"

"No. He is out with the hunting party, patrolling the southern forest. He will not be back for some time."

"Damn. I could do with a few extra hands. Have you any servants about?"

Victor was surprised when Velkan lay a bloody hand upon his own, and held fast the cloth covering his wounds. The doctor was riveted by the gypsy's sapphire gaze like a fly in a spider's web, hypnotised by both his eyes and the disquieting darkness behind them.

"My hands are still useful," Velkan said, attempting to make light of the grave situation, his blood warm against Victor's cold skin. "What must you do?"

The German inadvertently stared at the crimson-stained cloth on his patient's abdomen. "Once the bleeding has stopped, we must then take precautions to see that the wounds do not get infected. But do not trouble yourself with worrying, Master Valerious. You will be properly cared for."

At that moment Anna returned from her quest with several bottles and a brown leather bag which she set heavily on the table beside her wounded brother. Victor was surprised by her vehemence, and cast a sidelong glance at her that spoke all too clearly of how intimidated he was of this young woman who behaved as no female he had ever met.

"The medical instruments in this bag are old, but in good condition," she said. "I think you would use them better than improvising with forks and spoons."

"Indeed. That is clever thinking of you, Mistress Valerio-"

"Anna."

"Miss Anna."

"Hear me, doctor," she said sternly, "I am not leaving his side. Do not bother lecturing me, only tell me what I must do to help."

Victor nodded, feeling somewhat relieved that the young man's sister was offering her services. "I will have to stitch his wounds. I need strong thread, Anna, and I need it to be coated in wax—it is less painful and more sanitary that way, and you seem to have enough candles for the task. I also need several sturdy needles, like the kind used for leather repair. If you haven't got any, bring me whatever you can find, and quickly."

The princess said nothing, but was away in an instant to gather the man's requested supplies.

Victor turned back to Velkan, whose face was beginning to reflect his hæmorrhaging, pale and sweaty. "You are going to sew me back together," he muttered, "like a quilt?"

"You will not feel much, my boy. I will try to make it as quick and painless as possible."

"The pain is not what troubles me," he said. "It is the thought."

"And I will take care of that first. Here, have a draught of whiskey-"

"O God, I am dying then, aren't I?"

"Of course not, it is only to ease your discomfort. There are certain merits to being intoxicated, such as lack of sensation and decreased blood circulation. I'm afraid it is the best anæsthesia available at this point, so drink up. Small sips now, take care not to choke. I know it's difficult to swallow while lying down, but you should try to avoid as much movement as possible.

"Now, since you seem a bit apprehensive, I will tell you exactly what I am doing and when I shall do it. Right now I am going to begin disinfecting that first laceration…"

And so Victor Frankenstein poured alcohol on Velkan's wounds, removed the bits of dirt and gravel from the torn flesh, and began preparation for the impromptu surgery. Anna remained true to her word, assisting the doctor in readying the thread and cleaning his instruments as well as any nurse. She held her brother's hand as Victor drew the first stitch, and Velkan clamped down on the wooden dowel in his mouth to stifle his screams.

Though wholly concentrated on his task, Victor was impressed by the resilience and strength exhibited by the siblings, and was certain that he would never again meet such fascinating and heroic individuals. It served as a reminder that integrity knew no ethnicity, and gave him all the more reason to succeed in his work. This was for whom he strove: people whose fantastic lives would ultimately be cut short by death. In a world that knew no tragedy, these souls would continue to live on and do their good for humanity. _This_ is the definition of his life's work, thought Victor with love pouring from his heart and into his industrious, blood-stained fingers. _This_ is where the wall between Heaven and Earth shall fall, and the fear that has haunted Man since time began shall crumble with it.

† † †

The hours that had become small during the night were now growing larger as dawn approached. Victor had finished sewing shut Velkan's wounds by four o'clock, and now there was nothing to be done but wait, and pray that the prince had not lost too much blood.

The doctor and Anna had moved him to a chaise in the parlour, and there, bandaged and blanketed, he slept peacefully with his sister sitting by his side on the floor. She dozed intermittently and had yet to let go of his hand.

Victor had cleaned the scullery and returned it to its previous condition, but afterwards his clothes were still stained with blood and he was frightfully exhausted from the ordeal. He joined the Valerious siblings in the parlour, intending to be close at hand should Velkan need resuscitation, and fell asleep in a chair quite by accident. He was roused some time later by Anna shaking his shoulder. His eyes sprang open suddenly and he was surprised to see the room illuminated by the sickly light of a grey, snowy day.

"O my, do forgive me," he apologised. "I hope I've not caused you any inconvenience by nodding off."

"I hear my father's return," said Anna, ignoring the doctor's words. "I will tell him what happened. Don't wake Velkan just yet." And then she disappeared from the parlour.

Victor released a heavy sigh and rubbed his face, brushing back his short blond hair. He was in no mood to greet people at this hour, especially looking as haggard as he did. Still, he mused, he looked a great deal livelier than the average Vaserian citizen.

He stood from the chair and made his way over to the chaise where Velkan lay, shirtless but wrapped in gauze strips about the middle. There was very little blood on the bandages, which meant that Victor had been thorough in shutting the wounds. The doctor took a seat on the edge of the chaise, and the young man awoke from the movement beside him.

Victor smiled at him reassuringly, and Velkan sleepily returned the expression. "I suppose I've lived after all," he murmured.

"It seems you have. This time, at least." He gently patted the prince's knee. "You may not be so fortunate should this happen again, Master Valerious. I would avoid any more of these 'hunting parties' for a few weeks."

Velkan blinked slowly as he sustained his thin smile, his eyes appearing older and wiser than his years. "Somebody must destroy the werewolves, doctor."

The way he so calmly and naturally spoke the words made Victor's hair stand on end. If he were at Goldstadf he would have been inclined to argue the existence of such fairy-tale creatures to no end. But Victor knew that the people of Vaseria were stubborn in their beliefs of the supernatural, and he saw no point in arguing. He was clearly outnumbered; however, he was reluctant to admit that he was perhaps beginning to entertain the possibility—scientifically speaking—of cross-speciæs mutation. But not yet. He already had enough to focus upon as it was.

"I know I have no reason to doubt your sincerity," Victor said quietly, "and I know that the thing which attacked us last night would have killed me were it not for you, Velkan. For this I am greatly in your debt."

"You owe me nothing," he replied. "Your efforts saved my life as well. I would say that we are equal by one another." He paused. "I apologise for my behaviour the first time we met. I thought you were up to no good, but now I see that I had been too quick to judge. For that I am sorry."

The doctor felt almost ill, knowing in truth that Velkan's instincts had been correct. Stealing corpses from graves to use in an experiment where the main objective was undermining God's power was far from "good", and certainly more evil than any idea this innocent young man was capable of authoring. But still Victor managed to smile, and he felt like a liar even though he spoke not a word.

Velkan's eyes were drawn over the doctor's shoulder; his expression fell into a cold, lifeless mask that was both sorrowful and ashamed. "Father," he said tonelessly.

Victor turned to see Boris Valerious in the doorway, staring at his son with mutual sadness in his single eye. Anna was at his side, looking solemn and surprisingly docile.

The man was greying and burly, rugged-looking and thickly built. His attire was dark like that of his children's—no doubt for nighttime camouflage, assumed Victor—and he carried a sword on his belt. His presence was commanding, yet the doctor could not help but to feel as if this man were locked outside the walls of a happy life, looking in with the demeanor of one who had resigned himself to the inevitable.

Perhaps it was a reaction to his son's condition, thought Victor. A son that, for some reason, looked nothing at all like his biological father…

"Lord Valerious," he greeted in awkward Romanian as he rose to his feet. "To meet you is an honour."

"He is not a lord," Velkan corrected softly. "He is a king."

The doctor turned about in shock. "The king? Of Vaseria?"

"King of the gypsies, yes."

Victor bowed low to Boris, who arched his eyebrow suspiciously. "My apologies, Your Majesty. I did not know your status."

Boris nodded his pardon. "Do not worry yourself, Mr…?"

"Frankenstein. Victor Frankenstein."

"Mr Frankenstein, do not feel the need to salute me so grandly. My title is not of especial importance. In fact, I should address you as 'Doctor', correct?"

"I am a doctor, yes, though not to mistake me for a physician; I am familiar with, ah… _Velkan, how does one say 'diagnoses'? Really? Thank you._ Diagnoses, sire, and treating common illness, but my knowledge is for surgery and studies. I came to Transylvania early this year to finish my research."

Boris nodded again, somewhat impressed by the foreigner's grasp of the Romanian language. "We lost our own doctor some time ago," he said in a rumbling voice. "I understand that you have saved my son's life."

"Only after he first saved mine, sire."

"Is this true, Velkan?"

The prince closed his eyes and nodded his head slightly.

"You swore that you would not go into the east forest again," the king said sternly. "Did you forget what happened the last time?"

"No, father…"

"Anna's horse had to be put out of its misery after the werewolf disembowelled it, and being abducted by Dracula himself is something I would care never to hear of again! It was but three years ago—you should not have forgotten by now."

Victor's breath hitched in his throat when he heard the name of his benefactor spoken so terribly, and suddenly it seemed as if all the air in the room had been sucked out by an invisible lung. He stumbled in his momentary disorientation, and was surprised when Anna—Princess Anna, he reminded himself—was then at his side and steadying him.

"Are you feeling well, doctor?" she asked concernedly.

"I-I am only tired," he lied. "It has been a long night. I… should be making my way home again."

Boris stroked his moustache thoughtfully. "Pity that you must leave so soon. I was hoping to speak with you a bit longer, but I suppose our conversation can wait for another occasion. I will call a carriage to return you to your home."

"Please, do not trouble yourself for my sake. I am-"

"Nonsense, I insist. It is no trouble, and the very least I could do in return for saving the life of my reckless son."

"Well… very good. Thank you, Your Majesty." Victor found himself abbreviating his sentences, his mind fully occupied with questions regarding the Valerious' knowledge of Dracula. Obviously the Count was not well-thought of by this family, and Victor was immediately obsessed with finding out the reason why.

"I should go now," he excused himself, gathering up his coat. "I have much to do, and so must yourselves."

"If it pleases you, sir. Come, I will show you the way," offered Boris.

Victor bade farewell to Anna and Velkan, and followed the king from the parlour. "You have wonderful children," he said conversationally as they walked. "You must be very proud."

The elder man sighed heavily. "God knows I try," he answered. "They have been difficult to raise."

"Your effort is clear… it, it shows in them," Victor stumbled, trying to find the correct term.

"Perhaps in Anna," Boris admitted, "but Velkan…" He trailed off and shook his head as they approached the front entrance, then clapped a hand on Victor's shoulder. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Dr Frankenstein. Perhaps if you are not otherwise engaged, you would like to join us for dinner next week? It is Christmas after all, and we would appreciate your company."

Victor's heart sent blood surging through his veins. It had been so long since his last interaction with people that he found himself suddenly starving for human companionship, even if he was barely acquainted with them. However, the Count was most insistent that the doctor keep himself immersed in his current progress, lest he become distracted and fall behind. But the need to escape the darkness of his labouratory and the heavy conscience he carried from committing those ghastly deeds suddenly overpowered whatever hesitation he harboured about postponing his experiment. He _needed_ this respite, thought Victor. He needed to be reminded of those for whom he struggled, to be around a family, such as the family he had left behind in Germany. Perhaps in this he would find himself renewed, ready to take on greater strides in the name of science. He had no reason to refuse such a generous offer—and the man was a king, after all. How could he refuse a personal invitation from such a prominent figure?

"Thank you," said Victor with a smile as he shook Boris' hand in a gesture of farewell. "I would be delighted."

_To Be Continued..._


	10. Unusual Properties

**Father  
Author:** H.J. Bender  
**Pairing:** --  
**Rating:** T  
**Summary:** A Christmas Eve celebration at Valerious Manor ends painfully for Victor Frankenstein, who is beginning to discover the truth behind the mysterious Count Dracula...  
**Disclaimer:** Main characters, events, original storyline, etc belong to Universal Studios 2004.  
**A/N:** I have taken a few liberties with ages and dates, though minimally. Enjoy.

_I love you...  
I love you no more.  
I love you no more or less  
Than you loved me,  
When it was still me that you loved.  
-_Rammstein, _Wo Bist Du_

**X. Unnatural Properties**

Snow fell with gentle silence upon the blackened, weathered stone of the Frankenstein castle. From the outside it almost appeared benign, nestled in the white crowns of mountainous rock like a sleeping bird. The light of day was sallow and overcast, typical of the Romanian winters; the thunderstorms would not come until spring, leaving more time to be spent on piecing together the dead components of human bodies. It was a despicable task to be doing on any given day, let alone on Christmas Eve.

Victor attempted to nurse his guilty conscience, repeating to himself for the thousandth time "the ends justify the means" until it seemed to become the mantra of the entire project. Surely he would be pardoned of any misdemeanor when he instilled life in an organism that had never lived before. Surely the scientific community would be too busy praising his success to take notice of a few broken laws. All is well that ends well. Fortune favours the bold. Necessary evil for the greater good of mankind.

It wasn't so bad, he thought to himself as he meticulously tied the suture that connected two rubbery pieces of muscle. The worst crime would be to have such knowledge of science and not use it to help the world. He was, by all odds, doing humanity a great favour by taking the matter into his own hands; the bodies he had stolen would have otherwise gone to waste, but now they are to come together to form something spectacular, something that would go down in the annals of history as perhaps the greatest achievement of modern medicine since the discovery of bacteria. In fact, the relatives of the deceased ought to feel honoured that their dearly departed are to play such an important role in what is to be a milestone in the intellectual evolution of Man. Wouldn't they rather their loved ones be immortalised by science instead of left to feed the worms? Any discerning person would, naturally!

Victor kept reassuring himself until he was nearly cheerful again. Soon he would no longer require excuses, he thought, washing the dried blood from his hands and picking up his log book. Soon the only thing he would have to worry about is becoming accustomed to seeing his portrait on book covers and surgical manuscripts all over the world. All of those narrow-minded buffoons who had ridiculed him at Goldstadf would be tripping over one another to apologise to him, begging his forgiveness for ever doubting his vision. His skeptical colleagues would be beside themselves with envy, his unimaginative professors appropriately silenced and their archaic practises forced into the shadows of obscurity.

The glory of fame appealed to Victor far more than wealth and riches: to be accepted by the academic community once more; to be hailed as a genius for his work; to be able to instruct a new generation of surgeons and doctors as he grew old with his beloved Elizabeth at his side. This he desired above all else. Failure was simply not an option.

"And it _will_ work," Victor said quietly to himself, thumbing through the myriad papers that were the fruit of his brilliant, virile mind. "I have not missed a single detail. My research is flawless, and my abilities want for nothing. I have dreamt it and planned it to its end, and now only remains to do it."

He laughed suddenly, delighted beyond further words at the realisation that it would not be long ere his experiment reached its zenith, and his greatest wishes would at last come true. It was like a fairy-tale, he thought. A fantastic, incredible story in which the long-suffering hero overcomes adversity and triumphs to the tune of "happily ever after".

"Igor!" called Victor, and from high up in the labouratory's network of scaffolding and bridgework the hunchback waddled into view.

"Yes, doctor," he grunted.

"The hour grows late—we have completed enough for the day, I believe; we are ahead of schedule as it is, and it would be a sore loss if we were to err in our haste."

"Very well, doctor. Shall I put the…" He gazed warily down at the corpse Victor had been assembling. "…_experiment_ into the cellar again?"

"That would be very good, Igor. Thank you."

The disfigured little man mumbled something and then disappeared into the shadows with his customary limp.

Victor scribbled something in his logbook and then shut it with a relieved sigh. He glanced at the clock on his workbench and quickly left the room. He had an appointment with the Valerious family, and it would not be polite to keep royalty waiting.

† † †

The doctor's arrival had been anticipated, for a man was waiting outside the main entrance to the manor. He relieved Victor of his horse and bade him to proceed on his own, which he did tentatively, shaking the snow from his coat as he entered the foyer. Almost immediately he spotted Anna at the other end of the broad hall, and was glad to see that the princess was not dressed to the nines for the occasion. Victor himself had been forced to sacrifice a number of the few good suits he had brought with him, and he certainly had not anticipated being invited to a Christmas party by gypsy nobility. It was to his dismay that the only decent outfit he had set aside was now too big for him—apparently his feverish work ethic was beginning to take a noticeable toll on his body. Had Victor been more concerned with his appearance he would have noticed how thin and tired his face had grown, but he was far too preoccupied with his progress to worry about looking his best.

He hung his coat on an ornate peg and regarded Anna from a distance: her long curls were pinned back and she wore a white blouse sprinkled with festive red patterns, dangling thin tassels of crimson, and trimmed with lace. A large crucifix hung about her neck, swinging like a silver pendulum as she bent forward to adjust a strand of decorations at the base of the grand staircase. The red skirt she wore with its layered flounces came to the heels of her black shoes, and Victor was surprised at how feminine she appeared when she was not wearing trousers. Truly now she looked like a proper gypsy princess, and she was incredibly beautiful.

"Mistress Valerious," he called in a friendly tone, and Anna smiled fleetingly when she recognised him. "I hope I am not too late?"

"You are early if anything," she answered. "Come in."

Victor made his way through the great hall, this time able to appreciate its size and splendour now that he did not have to worry about saving the life of a wounded prince. A fire crackled warmly in a massive hearth at one end of the room, and the oblong table in its centre was bare but for a few interesting ornaments.

"I have never celebrated Christmas in a foreign country before," confessed Victor as he approached Anna, who was busily attending a crisp-smelling pine garland at the base of the stairs. "Are your customs much different from ours?"

"That depends upon whom you speak," she asked, not lifting her gaze from the garland she was fastening. "Are you familiar with the Catholic Christmas?"

Victor fidgeted. "Er, well, my family was Lutheran…"

"I don't know the difference. My father would understand—he is more familiar with the religions than I." She finished tying the red ribbon and finally looked at Victor directly, blessing him with one of her rare, radiant smiles. "Velkan has been looking forward to your arrival."

"Has he? Is he here?"

"I think he is still upstairs. He and Papa-" She stopped herself before she could say anything more, and a sad shadow passed briefly over her face. She changed the subject. "Would you like a drink?"

She began to walk towards the bar before Victor had a chance to answer, thus he hastily followed after her. His curiosity pecked away at his better judgment, causing him to jump to conclusions—it was a difficult thing to avoid when presented with such an interesting family as this.

"Velkan…" he ventured, "does he not get along with your father?"

Fortunately Anna was not offended by the doctor's query, though she certainly did not seem eager to talk. "They have their differences. All families do," she stated bluntly, removing two glasses from a lacquered cupboard and placing a heavy bottle of whiskey on the bar. For a moment Anna appeared as if she wanted to elaborate on the topic, but then thought better of it and poured a short glass of whiskey for herself and her guest.

"_În cinstea dumitale_," she said, raising her glass.

Victor echoed the toast and took a modest sip. When he lowered his glass he noticed that Anna had drained hers in a single gulp. Not only did the princess dress and fight like a man, but she drank like one, too. Not wishing to seem inferiour, Victor haltingly tilted his glass back and swallowed the rest of the fiery liquid. The fumes alone singed his tongue and brought tears to his eyes, which he blinked back with some difficulty.

"Strong," he wheezed, forcing a smile onto his face.

Anna had not even batted an eyelash. "Another?" she dared, raising the bottle.

The last thing Victor wanted was to faint from over-intoxication in front of his hosts, and was just about to decline as politely as he could when there came the sound of footfalls on the stairs. Anna poured herself another glass as Velkan appeared from behind a column.

Unlike the bright, festive attire of his sibling, the young prince wore a simple white shirt with flowing sleeves beneath a vest of black velveteen, studded with gleaming silver buttons. A grey satin cravat was knotted at his collar, and his habitually tousled hair was neatly combed back. His trousers were similarly black, and though he had traded his customary boots for gentlemen's shoes, he looked as if he could be ready to jump bridges and hurdle horses at a moment's notice.

"I see you've already begun without me," he said teasingly to his sister, who smiled wryly at him from behind her glass. He turned his gaze to Victor and gave a shallow bow. "Dr Frankenstein. It is a pleasure to see you again."

"The pleasure is mine, Master Valerious," the doctor assured, nodding his head respectfully and lifting his empty glass. "Perhaps you would like to take my place here at the bar—I am afraid your sister will drink me under my chair if I stay for much longer."

Anna laughed lightly at what was to her a flattering comment, and beckoned her brother to join them. "Yes, come along, Velkan. I need to drink with a man who can hold the Transylvanian whiskey better than our foreign friend here."

Velkan obligingly nodded his head and smiled. "Perhaps that is something that can wait until after dinner. I was hoping to borrow Dr Frankenstein for a few moments." He looked directly at Victor. "Would that be too inconvenient?"

"N-no," replied the doctor, quite certain that he would never cease to be perturbed by the prince's powerful gaze. "I can accommodate."

"What do you need to discuss?" Anna asked flatly, obviously unhappy with the prospect of being discounted from their conversation.

"I just have a few questions regarding my surgery," said Velkan as he took Victor by the arm and began to lead him away. "We will not be long. If father asks for us, we shall be in the library."

Anna said nothing in reply, instead taking a swill from her glass and purposely avoiding Velkan's questing gaze—he took it as a sign that she grudgingly consented, and walked Victor out into the hall once more.

"She certainly is strong-willed," he commented as he and the prince ascended the stairs.

"That is her definition," Velkan answered, easily hopping the steps with that energy typical of youth. "If she were anything but strong-willed and stubborn, she would not be my sister."

"It is nice to see siblings who are so close," Victor continued, not wishing to bear the burden of an awkward lull in conversation. "In other parts of the world, brothers and sisters regard each other so trivially, perhaps even less than family."

"When you live in a place like this, family is all that you have," murmured Velkan as they reached the top of the staircase. "Friends are few and far between."

Victor followed him down a dark corridor, looking about with uncertainty. "I feel somewhat honoured by that…" He trailed off as Velkan pushed open a door and bade the doctor inside; he entered hesitantly and Victor heard the door close behind him. Almost immediately he noticed that something was wrong.

The room was cold and dim, lit only by a single paraffin lantern burning low on a sconce. Heavy curtains were drawn over the windows, and Victor felt as if he were standing in a tomb, a place of acute suffering and misery—the epicentre of all the unspoken anguish that poured from Vaseria's heart. A dishevelled bed rested against one wall, its covers unmade and strewn about as if its occupant had suffered violent, restless nightmares the night before and had abandoned it upon waking. The large, gaudily-framed mirror that hung on the opposite wall bore a circular cluster of splinters in the centre, as if it had been struck with a fist; thin lines of cracked glass spread out like the delicate silk of a spider's web, distorting the reflections it cast. Books were strewn hither and thither, pages folded or otherwise marked to preserve the reader's place—they cluttered bureau-tops and bedside tables as thickly as dust, and Victor's eyes caught a few of the titles: _Ancient Royalty of Wallachia_; _Demonology: Myths & Lore_; _Vampyres & Their Kin_.

"This is not the library," he said quietly, straining to keep his voice steady.

"No. It is my room," said Velkan, stepping forward to stand before Victor. "I need to ask a favour of you, doctor."

"Favour?" Victor's voice momentarily broke in his anxiety, making him all the more conscious of the situation. "What sort of favour?"

With a soft, relenting sigh, the prince slid his vest from his shoulders, loosened his cravat, and began to unbutton his shirt.

A thousand thoughts suddenly screamed through Victor's mind from every corner, crashing together in the centre of his head and all but disengaging his senses completely. He lost the faculty to speak, and though he knew he should look askance, he could not tear his eyes from the bare skin that was emerging in front of him.

With the last button unfastened, Velkan stood silently with his face turned away, and when he spoke his voice was hushed with something that could have been shame: "Can you remove them?"

Victor was unable to answer for a moment, too astonished by Velkan's odd behaviour to notice that the lacerations on the prince's abdomen—the same ones Victor had only last week sewn shut—were almost fully healed. When finally the doctor reckoned the barely-visible scars, his reaction was alarmingly calm.

"You want me to… remove the sutures," he reiterated quietly. "But, how did…?"

Unable to resist the urge, Victor moved forward to touch the wounds for himself, just to be certain that it wasn't the dim light playing with his eyes. No; Velkan's skin was surprisingly cool to the touch, and the scars were indeed real, even if they looked to be years old.

He raised his eyes and found Velkan staring at him knowingly, pleadingly, as if the phenomenon of his recovery was a dark thing of which he could not bring himself to speak; as if it were causing him more pain than the actual wounds he had received.

Victor saw this deep inner turmoil and kept his mouth shut, nodding once in affirmation. He knew better than to question what was obviously a profound and personal subject to the prince, and bade with clinical coolness, "Very well. I will need a pair of forceps, and it would be best if you were to lie down…"

Velkan had smuggled the old medical bag from the armoury into his room, and he gave it to the doctor before tidying his bed in preparation; he laid down near the middle while Victor took a seat on the edge and leaned over to do his work. No words were spoken between them as the stitches were quietly removed with a "snip-snip" from Victor's scissors—perhaps the gravity of the prince's words had robbed all point of idle conversation.

There was something disturbingly intimate about this moment, Victor wondered as he coaxed the thread from the miraculous flesh it had held together so briefly. Velkan had entrusted him to keep a secret, one that he had obviously not disclosed to his family. What reasons did he have to deny them of this knowledge? What could have frightened him into silence? Was it that perhaps his family's superstitions would lead to false assumptions? Surely it was thus, for no ordinary human could have healed so quickly, not unless they possessed an extraordinary ability to regenerate.

Victor had to force himself to abstain from inquiring further and found it nearly impossible. If Velkan were indeed experiencing some unique physical anomaly, perhaps it would aid in the doctor's experiments… no. No, he would not even consider it. He _could_ not consider it. Velkan was a living person, and to use him as a test subject would not only be unethical, it would be unspeakably cruel. However, the desire for knowledge was strong in Victor; surely there was an untapped spring of scientific phenomena stored within this incredible body, though he doubted that Velkan would embrace the thought of offering himself to the operating table alongside a dozen stolen corpses. If only he knew of the things the doctor had done…

"Why do you trust me, Velkan?" he asked softly, not lifting his eyes from the thread.

The prince did not reply at first, but silence persisted as the question waited for its answer. "Because I know you are a good man, Frankenstein," he said, "even if you feel that you are at odds with your own conscience."

Victor abruptly paused as Velkan's words echoed through the walls of his mind, and he felt his throat tighten as everything became suddenly clear to him. "You are very special, Velkan. I have only met one other man who seemed capable of reading the thoughts of others."

The young man's breath suddenly hitched, and when Victor lifted his head to see his reaction, he found Velkan staring at him fretfully.

"You know this man, don't you?"

"As do we both, it seems," Velkan said in a voice scarcely above a whisper.

After a lengthy silence Victor returned his focus to the final thread. They did not speak for the remainder of the procedure, although their thoughts seemed to exchange as easily as spoken words. When at last the task was finished, Velkan sat up gingerly while Victor cleaned the instruments and returned them to their leather case.

"Thank you, doctor," he said softly as he began to button his shirt.

Victor nodded in acknowledgement and allowed a brief smile to flicker across his face. "It was no trouble."

Velkan swallowed nervously. "You… won't tell anyone, will you?"

Never did Victor expect to hear a note of fear in the young man's voice; however, he found that Velkan seemed to possess limitless means of surprising him.

"I never planned to in the first place," he replied, placing a warm hand of reassurance on Velkan's shoulder. And when he forced himself to stare directly into the prince's eyes, their familiar hollowness confirmed the truth that he had suspected all along. "Do not fear, Velkan. Your secrets shall die with me."

† † †

They found Anna loitering impatiently at the bottom of the stairs. "I was tempted to call a search party when I didn't find you in the library," she quipped indignantly. "Where have you been all this time? Dinner is ready."

"My apologies, Anna," said Victor quickly. "I am finding your home most fascinating, and your brother was kind enough to give me a brief tour."

If Velkan was impressed by the doctor's quick thinking, he showed no signs of it. "We must have lost track of the time," he added without missing a beat, moving close to hook his arm around his sister's. "I'm certain that father will excuse us."

"Your confidence in what father will or will not abide by has been terribly inaccurate lately," Anna glowered in a hushed voice; Victor imagined that she was speaking of the argument between Velkan and Boris that had occurred earlier that evening.

The prince leaned close to Anna's ear and whispered in Romanian, "_Can we not speak of this now? Or perhaps you've taken a fancy to ridiculing me as well?_"

"_You know that is untrue, Velkan. Father is only concerned for you_-"

"_He of all people should know that_ _I_-"

"Goodness me," declared Victor suddenly, "I hope we are not keeping anyone waiting…?"

There was a pause, and then Anna relented with a nod of her head. "Yes, we should hurry along before the food gets cold." Her arm still looped with Velkan's, she pulled him gently past the staircase and Victor followed closely behind.

The large table in the great hall seemed to be reserved for grander occasions, Victor observed as he was led into the dining room where sat a relatively smaller table. Apparently this room was used by family only. He was quite honoured when he was offered a seat beside the king; Boris sat at the head of the table, his children to his left and the doctor to his right. He gave an unusually sombre prayer at the beginning of the meal, followed by an equally sombre toast. Victor felt as if this were dinner in the wake of a funeral instead of a cheerful holiday feast. No one seemed to be in the mood to talk, and if not for Velkan's single attempt at conversation the whole meal would have been spent in complete silence.

"Tell us, doctor," said the prince lightly as he poked uninterestedly at his food, "what other lands have you seen in your travels?"

"Quite a few, actually," replied Victor with an almost grateful air. "I've studied at several international universities over the past few years, most of them only for a few months, and I've given several lectures in countries where a translator has been required."

"Go on," Velkan urged, resting his elbows on the table and leaning forward. Though his manner seemed earnest, his expression was melancholy. "It must be quite adventurous, travelling the world."

"Some of the time it is, yes," said Victor, picking up his wine glass. "There are people who are better suited for travel and foreign living, and I must confess there were times that I thought if I had to leave home one more time I would rather become a tailor instead."

Velkan smiled. Anna took interest in the conversation at that point, and listened readily.

Victor continued, "I've spent quite a lot of time in Austria-Hungary, it being quite close to my mother land, and Vienna is famous for its association with the sciences. Every doctor and physicist in the world dreams of going to Vienna…" He trailed off.

"Any other countries?" prompted Velkan hopefully.

"Goodness, yes. Quite a few: England, France, Italy, Belgium, Sweden, practically every major European city. The profession of medical research is one of endless treasure hunting and travel. It can be most tiresome, and unfortunately I'm quite susceptible to sea-sickness so I try to-"

"Sea?" Anna interrupted, suddenly intrigued. "You have travelled the sea?"

"It's quite difficult to avoid it, especially when one must reach England," Victor jested lightly.

"What does it look like? The sea, I mean?" she asked reverently, and the doctor immediately got the notion that the girl had yet to visit the shore—in fact, she had probably never left this dismal town for more than a day, perhaps her brother as well. No wonder these poor children were so starved for visions of the outside world; they were practically prisoners in this horrible, dreary place. The doctor could not imagine living in Vaseria for so long—the very idea made his heart weak.

Victor cleared his throat and his voice took on a more tender tone. "The sea… the sea is never the same two days in a row, my dear. Always is it changing. Sometimes the surface is as still as a looking-glass, and sometimes it churns enormous waves like… like a steam engine, so powerful can it be. It can sink a ship in a single wave or float it in the same place for weeks. Sailors have a saying, 'a red sky at night is a sailor's delight—a red sky in the morning and sailors take warning'. They are correct most of the time, such unusual accuracy…"

Anna appeared so enraptured that Victor wanted to keep talking, just to see the light twinkle in her eyes. "And the colours… sometimes the water is a pale green, other times such a dark shade of blue that it almost looks black. When you stand on the deck of a ship and look down into that… that _depth_, you could almost imagine that it goes on for ever, straight through to the other side of the world. And the shore is-"

"Come now, doctor," Boris interrupted with vague annoyance, "surely you must have more of which to speak besides the colour of water?"

Anna became suddenly defencive of Victor, and said sharply, "I happen to find Dr Frankenstein's words quite interesting. Wouldn't you agree, Velkan?" She glanced expectantly at her brother, but the prince sat back in his chair and said nothing, although he raised his eyes to cast a mournful look at Victor.

Boris harrumphed with his customary gruffness and muttered, "Children are bedazzled by such trivial things."

"I do not think that the rest of the world is so meaningless, father," Anna snapped with unexpected vehemence. "Who are you to judge the worth of things? You have never left Vaseria-"

"Anna," Velkan whispered warningly, placing his hand on his sister's arm in an attempt to calm her.

"True, I may never have gone beyond the forests of Transylvania," the king said sternly as he stared at his daughter, "but I know what purpose it is that I must serve, and I need not traipse over land and sea in search of my heart's fancy when I know I am needed here."

Silence descended. Anna pinched her lips together and looked as if she could either burst into tears or begin shouting fit to start a war, but she held her tongue and turned her head, glaring down at her plate without another word. Velkan gave her arm a gentle squeeze and then placed his napkin upon the table, likewise cowed into silence.

Victor released the breath he had been holding and hoped his hands were not shaking as badly as he felt they were. "Well spoken," he said unsteadily, raising his glass in a small toast. "To purpose. May we all find ours as easily."

† † †

After dinner Anna announced to Victor that she and her father were going to attend Mass as was the custom of the villagers on Christmas Eve. The doctor declined the invitation to join them, excusing himself due to the late hour and the work that was waiting for him at the castle. He thanked his hosts for dinner and prepared himself for departure as Boris and Anna took their leave into the snowy, star-lit night.

Victor was pulling on his coat as Velkan bade farewell to his family from the front door, and he could not help but to inquire, "Are you not joining your family at Mass?"

The prince smiled in such a doleful way that Victor felt his heart suddenly ache for the boy. "I keep watch over the manor," he spoke hesitantly, looking away and fiddling with something in his trousers pocket.

"Ah." Victor nodded once, and decided not to comment on his observation that Velkan wore no crucifix about his neck as did the rest of his family—and the rest of the villagers, for that matter. But he likely had his reasons, and debating religious customs was something the doctor cared not to do at this hour.

Velkan lifted his head. "How kind of you," he murmured.

"I beg your pardon?"

The young man shook his head dismissively. "Never mind. Doctor, I…" He struggled to find his tongue. "I am afraid I must ask another favour of you."

"Anything you wish."

Velkan acknowledged the doctor's answer and then turned, beginning a brisk walk towards his father's study. Victor, uncertain of whether to wait or to follow, decided the latter and hurried after the prince.

When finally he entered Boris' study, he found Velkan hovering over the writing desk in the corner, scribbling hastily onto a piece of paper with an ink pen. Upon finishing, he returned the pen to its well and gently blew on the paper to make certain that the ink had properly dried. Then he folded it neatly, slipped it into a letter envelope, and then reached into his pocket, producing a small object that Victor could not identify. Velkan tucked it into the envelope, lifted a nearby letter opener and, to Victor's horror, pressed the tip into his thumb, piercing his flesh until a bead of rich red blood formed.

"Be careful!" cried the doctor, rushing forward to offer his aid, but Velkan halted him with a single glance.

"It is nothing serious," he said in a low tone, squeezing his thumb so that his blood dripped upon the back of the envelope. "I do this frequently enough."

Victor could only helplessly watch as the prince poured a small pool of blood onto the paper; then when he had collected enough he took up a wooden stamp bearing the Valerious family crest and pressed it into the blood. The stickiness formed a natural sealer and the envelope was effectively closed, bearing the Valerious mark.

Velkan brought his thumb to his mouth and sucked away the remaining blood as he handed the envelope to Victor, who received it carefully. "Give that to him," the prince instructed, turning away.

"Him? You mean… Dra-"

"Do not speak his name. Not here. Now take the letter and leave. Bring him this last message and then leave Vaseria for ever."

"Leave? What are you saying? Velkan, please, I don't understand why I-"

"_Go_," he ordered sharply, and then apologetically softened his voice. "Please, doctor. Just go."

Victor found it difficult to swallow for the sudden lump in his throat, unable to comprehend the prince's drastic change in behaviour. Had he in some way offended him? What of their friendship? Was it truly destined to be so brief? Victor silenced his questions and decided that perhaps these matters were best left untouched. "Thank you, Master Valerious," he said in a painfully formal tone. "I hope we shall soon meet again."

He waited until Velkan had given an answering nod of his head, then Victor turned with newly-acquired glumness and left the room. A few moments later the echo of the heavy wooden doors reverberated throughout the manor with grim finality, and the doctor was gone.

Velkan, still standing motionless in the study, allowed himself the luxury of letting a single sob escape his throat and a few tears shed themselves down his cheeks before resuming his hardened façade; he wiped the tears from his face and sniffed, collecting himself once more.

"I'm sorry, Dr Frankenstein," he whispered, gazing down at the crimson smear of blood on his thumb. "I have done all that I can."

But in his heart, Velkan knew that his efforts had not been enough—and he was correct.

December 24, 1886, would be the last time Victor Frankenstein was ever seen by living eyes.

† † †

The cold, drafty castle was even more dreary in spirit than Valerious Manor, Victor thought sullenly as he entered by way of the front gate. Though the gathering had obviously been to commemorate a happy occasion, it had unintentionally ended on a chilling note—especially after his strange dismissal by Velkan, and the prince's foreboding instructions to deliver the letter he had written to Count Dracula. What could it possibly say? And what was the object sitting in the bottom of the envelope? Victor had been tempted—but only once—to open the parcel before thinking better of it; the Count would surely detect any tampering, and although Victor had yet to see his benefactor lose his temper, he could imagine that Dracula was a man given over to anger as passionate as his interest in science.

As Victor made his way into the bleak and poorly-lighted parlour of the castle, he wondered how he was to take the letter to the Count, or if he should simply keep it with him until the next time Dracula came to the castle to observe his progress. Victor did not have long to wonder further, for a voice came from the shadowy corner of the room: "I trust you were not exhuming graves this evening, were you, Victor?"

The doctor had long since grown accustomed to the usual sensation of terror that burst through his veins upon being startled by his mentor, and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Dracula, dressed in his familiar black apparel, standing by the window and staring meditatively through the grimy glass with his hands clasped behind his back.

"N-no, Count," spoke Victor when he regained his ability to speak once more. "I was… invited to dinner by some of the villagers."

"How generous of them," said Vlad, turning away from the window and striding slowly towards the doctor. "You seem to be making friends quite quickly. Need I remind you that you first and foremost have an obligation to fulfill? Or have you lost interest in the project, hm?"

"Never!" exclaimed Victor whole-heartedly. "Igor and I have been making excellent progress and the machine should be ready in a few short months. Right now I need only concern myself with piecing together the body's components, and the work is coming along quickly."

The Count smiled thinly. "That is fortunate news. I would hate to think that my generous charities are being spoiled by procrastination." He stopped within a few paces of Victor, and the doctor saw a strange expression pass over his associate's features as he took several deep breaths. "It is the eve of Christmas again, isn't it? I had all but forgotten that wretched holiday. Do tell me, how is the Valerious family? Depressed and quarrelsome, I wager?"

Victor looked astonished. "How did… you…?"

Vlad grinned, but beneath the shallow gesture of mirth lurked an ominous, threatening core. "I find that people often have a difficult time keeping their secrets from me—one way or another they are always… revealed." He approached the doctor, and any aloofness he that had been present about his demeanor was abruptly replaced with something sharp and dangerous. "So," he murmured lowly, transfixing the man with his hollow stare, "perhaps now you would prefer to tell me what intimate affairs you have been keeping with Prince Velkan."

Victor was so shocked that this supposedly-confident information had been disclosed that he instinctively took a step back to distance himself from the Count, but Vlad had been anticipating such a reaction; he placed his hand heavily upon the doctor's shoulder, holding him in place.

"Don't be so alarmed by my knowledge," Dracula breathed, his face uncomfortably close to Victor's. "I can smell him on your clothes."

There was something sinister which gripped the doctor at this very moment, and suddenly he felt that he had every reason to fear for his life. Fortunately his panic lasted but briefly, for his thoughts suddenly returned to the blood-stained envelope that he carried in his coat pocket.

"I-I bring a m-message for you, Count," Victor stammered uncontrollably, reaching within the breast of his coat and producing the letter. The red seal of Valerious was facing upwards as the doctor delivered it into Vlad's hand.

Abruptly he released his hold on the doctor and stepped away, staring at the envelope with a chilling quality of light illuminating his once-dark eyes. He uttered an unintelligible whisper before turning his back to Victor—where, out of sight, he brought the envelope to his face and licked the dried blood with barely-restrained ecstasy. "_Velkan_," he whispered again, and then proceeded to tear open the envelope, unfolding the single piece of paper within it:

_Dracula—_

_I know not what evil plot you have destined for Victor Frankenstein, nor do I hold any means of bargaining for his life to be spared from your wickedness. Therefore am I reduced to begging of your mercy: _

_Grant this man his body and soul once more, and allow him to be freed from your power. He possesses kindness and goodness for which you shall never find a use, and I beseech you—as your Son, your Enemy, and the Soul which belongs to you—release Victor Frankenstein from your darkness, and I shall for ever be indebted to you, even unto Death._

_Your reluctant servant,  
Velkan Alexandru Valerious_

"Count…?" Victor inquired gently after a lengthy silence had persisted. He was presently startled by the sound of paper being torn, and when Dracula turned about, Victor's breath caught in his throat. Two lines of tears streamed down Vlad's angry face, though his eyes betrayed his true emotions: empty, forlorn, destitute of all things but agony.

However, the thing which caught the doctor's attention was the small object clutched in the Count's trembling hand—a slender ornament, most likely a pin for the hair, carved from black onyx; the large end was fashioned into the shape of a roosting bat, and two tiny gems gleamed from its eyes. Victor knew not the significance of the item, but he knew that this was surely a state of distress in which he had never before seen his mentor.

Tossing the shredded remains of the letter into the glowing hearth, the Count strode purposefully past Victor without another word, his dark cloak billowing behind him like a wrathful storm-cloud. Moments later the front door was thrown open as if with great force, and then silence fell within the castle.

The room seemed to grow suddenly brighter with Dracula gone, and Victor—still shaken from the frightful ordeal—turned to gaze after the departed Count, aware of the furious, frustrated wake that continued to linger in the atmosphere.

"So," said the doctor softly, staring into the shadows, "you are his father after all."

† † †

Alone at Valerious Manor, Velkan was lying despondently upon the chaise in the parlour, drowsy and dwelling upon woeful thoughts, when a sudden rush of cold air swept against his back, causing him to shiver. Immediately he sat up and noticed one of the windows across the room had come unlatched, and he left his comfortable position to investigate.

The shutters were opened wide, and no breeze blew in the snowy night beyond the glow of the candlelight; Velkan cautiously shut the window and secured the latch tightly.

"You cannot frighten me as you used to," he declared suddenly, and then turned around to behold Vladislaus Dracula standing in his midst, looking oddly at ease within the lamps' light.

"No," the Count smiled coldly, allowing his cloak to fall to the floor. "You are too much like me now."

Velkan tensed suddenly, anticipating Vlad's next move; however, he was not yet fast enough to evade an attack from his immortal father. The Count's hand wrapped about Velkan's throat as he was slammed into the wall, but the prince was remarkably undaunted and did not even attempt to fight the arm which held him pinned in place.

"I take it you received my message?" he asked calmly, staring directly into Dracula's eyes.

"That I did," Vlad confirmed, "and it warms my dead heart to see how greatly you care for a man even more corrupted than yourself."

"Wh-what?"

The Count smiled sweetly at Velkan. "Silly little prince, did you honestly believe that your dear Victor is a good man? You have not seen what he is building for me, nor are you aware of the crimes he has committed against his God and his fellow man."

"I know that he is faulted," Velkan snapped angrily, "but he is not blinded by evil intentions! I saw it in his heart-"

Dracula drew close to his son's face, uttering, "And still I see him in yours."

Velkan shut his mouth and turned his eyes away, unwilling to bear the weight of Vlad's smouldering gaze.

"Never forget, Velkan," he murmured, placing his free hand to the prince's pounding breast, "that _this_ belongs to me, and me alone." He paused, allowing his hand to trail down Velkan's open vest, coming to rest upon the tender wounds still scarring his abdomen. "I apologise for these," he said softly, with unusual sentiment. "Know that I would have had the beast put to death were it not already destroyed."

"There is not much to regret," Velkan muttered, "considering that Dr Frankenstein was there for me when I needed him."

The fingers at the prince's throat tightened a little, reminding him of his place. "You will not see that man again," said Vlad, darkness dripping from his every word. "I have gone to great lengths to secure him in my keeping, and I cannot allow you to meddle in my affairs. He is here to serve me, and when he has outlived his usefulness I intend to dispose of him. Save your precious tears for one who matters, Velkan. All others are worthless of your affections."

Blue eyes returned to hollow ones, defiant and at the same time wretchedly loving. "I hate you," whispered Velkan as the tears began to build in his eyes.

"No more or no less than I love you," answered Vlad, and squeezed his hand about the prince's throat until he began to sputter for air, sinking to the floor as his senses left him. The Count collected Velkan's limp body in his arms and carried it to the chaise, where he laid the unconscious young man down and checked to see that his pulse was normal—yes, he would only be senseless for a little while. Perhaps when he awoke he will have forgotten all about Victor Frankenstein.

"The things you would do to gain my confidence," sighed Vlad, lifting Velkan's limp hand and examining the swollen wound still on his thumb. "Unnecessary, but nevertheless endearing." He brought the thumb to his mouth and reopened the puncture with his tongue, savouring the brilliantly warm blood that he had not tasted for many years.

"Still you are sweet inside, despite all the bitterness that shows on the surface," the Count murmured, brushing the auburn hair from Velkan's forehead and giving a final lick to the prince's thumb, effectively healing the injury; he laid the hand back upon the young man's chest, but not before wrapping the warm fingers about the cold pin of onyx, the very same pin which Velkan himself had taken from Dracula when they first had met, sixteen long years ago.

"Keep this. You have paid more than what it is worth," said Vlad hoarsely, rising to his feet, gazing down at the peaceful-looking prince. "Sleep well."

A few moments later the curtains were catching the tiny snowflakes as they drifted in through the open window, and a dark shadow soared north across the starry skies.

_To Be Continued..._


End file.
